For the past, mmmm, 4 years or so I've vowed to myself every week that I will try yoga. And every week I ignore that promise and choose hefty weight lifting or mega cardio as my 5-day a week plan instead. Yesterday while I was on the stairmaster treadmill, my trainer saw me and urged me to go to an hour of hot yoga with her. I hemmed. I hawed. I thought of excuses. And finally I got my butt off the machine, grabbed a mat and joined her in the steamy studio. A few reasons that I knew hot yoga and I wouldn't really be friends include my penchant for overactive sweat glands, my inability to breathe from my diaphragm much less rhythmically, and my complete ineptness for all things stretching or flexibility. And yet, in spite of those major issues, I loved it. Not that I was a champ or pro or even a strong beginner, but something about the workout and the strength and fatigue in my limbs today have me hooked. Of course, I found that child's pose was my favorite. Who can't succeed while crouched in the fetal position in a warm place? But I was shocked at how challenged I felt to control my body's movements and try to make my overly-knotted muscles stretch and flow like our instructor urged. After last night's class I'm renewing my pledge to attend yoga regularly - I promised my trainer that I'd go with her again next week, and the fella and I are looking into private session at our honeymoon villa's open air studio. A yogi, I am not, but maybe I could be?