Some days start off bad and get worse. This includes any day that involves running. You know how I feel about that. Or swimming. Or anything that involves a person in a position of authority making you do any of these things. Let's add yoga to the list.
Yeah, I used to make fun of yoga as a sissy thing. I know better now, but it hurt to find out. I tried it recently when a friend recommended Forrest yoga as a way of opening up mein Germanic tighty-whitey hips. Seriously, I can sit on coal and make diamonds. OK, that's a different body part. It's handy at Christmas.
Anyway, the room is 85 degrees, and the instructor is forcing us into some position named after an animal that can insert its own head in its ass. I'm sweating like a congressman who realizes he just tweeted drunk, and I see this guy next to me about to pop a vein. I mean his face is red and he looks like he's on the receiving end of a prison proctology experiment. That's when I realize I'm looking at the mirror wall, and I'm the only male of the species in the class. Dammit. Long story short, I think the instructor had it in for me. She's probably a vegan, and I made bacon that morning, and she could smell it on me.
The only bright spot in the room was my tiny little personal space, defined by my Manduka BlackMatPRO. It's a beefy 71×26 inch yoga mat that you just have to feel. It weighs a ton, in this case 7 pounds, but that's a good thing: no doubling the mat over to cushion your knee, the quarter-inch padding is fine the way it is. Just roll it out and the little traction circles on the bottom make sure it won't move. The surface has a lot more friction than other mats, to get you through your own little private hell. That's all I've got to say about that.