sweat

OMHubby woke me at the crack of dawn today to go to Joe Flow. Admittedly, 7:30 a.m. might not be the crack of dawn to most people, but it is to me. When it’s Sunday. Or Saturday, for that matter. But I digress.

Joe Flow is a class at Dragonfly Hot Yoga officially titled Slow Flow, taught by an amazing instructor named Joe—hence, we affectionately call it Joe Flow. I had a few minor aches and pains from the golf clinic yesterday, but nothing that couldn’t be improved upon by an hour of downward facing dog, cobra, pigeon, and various other contortions. Including my personal favorite, child’s pose.

For a great portion of my life, I would never really sweat during exercise. More commonly, my face would turn red and I would feel like I was overheating. But with hot yoga, there is no doubt that it brings on the sweat. I do not look dewy or glistening, and there is no way you could even call this perspiring. When wet, salty fluid is pooling around your ankles and dripping steadily into your eyes, the only word for it is sweat. Today I earned every single drop.

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