It was at Messenger brainstorm that I first heard the words “hot yoga”. I wasn’t exactly sure what hot yoga was, but I presumed it to be some sort of softcore porn. Naturally I was intrigued, and volunteered to chronicle my own encounter with a hot yoga studio. I was immediately informed that hot yoga was devoid of any sort of nudity. But I remained unfazed, and went home to learn the truth about hot yoga, the truth that would determine the nature of my experience in this unlikely adventure. I brought up the Wikipedia article. Sessions were 90 minutes long and held in a room cranked up to 105 degrees and 40% humidity.

I was terrified. This was not how it was supposed to happen. My trip to the hot yoga studio was supposed to be nothing more than a wacky adventure, a humorous tale of downward-facing dogs gone horribly wrong; me, goofy Danny Schwartz, juxtaposed against spirituality, against physical discipline, against focus. No, hot yoga was far more daunting than that. Not a minute in drizzly Seattle, but an eternity in Death Valley.

I enlisted fellow senior and occasional yoga enthusiast Olivia Zech to accompany me to the studio. She smiled.

“I’ve always wanted to try hot yoga.” Her delight put me at a distinct unease. The male and female perspectives on yoga tend to differ dramatically. To an unenlightened male mind such as my own, yoga simply seemed feminine. This viewpoint wasn’t judgmental; rather, it was purely instinctual. To me, yoga was unnatural. And therein lay the intended premise of the article. It wasn’t supposed to be pretty.

Olivia and I tentatively shuffled into the lobby of Hot Yoga of Laurelhurst. It was small, intimate, humid, yet not quite constricting. Women emerged from the yoga studio having just concluded a 90-minute session, looking drained yet triumphant. We signed up at the desk. The woman behind the counter assured me that my first-time experience would be straight-forward, soothing, and ultimately, life-altering in only the best of ways.

Olivia and I crossed the threshold into the studio. The air weighed heavily on my skin but wasn’t overbearing, only present. We exchanged a couple of words and were quickly asked by the instructor to refrain from conversation. It was clear the session was to be taken seriously.

The class started with breathing exercises. Easy enough, right? Wrong. The adults around Olivia and I let loose the most violent, frightening breaths I have ever had the misfortunate to hear. To say the least, I was intimidated. Yet I forced optimism upon myself. The broad-shouldered man in front of me appeared to be a hot yoga veteran. I could follow him.

The group moved on to balance exercises and poses. I was no natural, but I managed. I followed the inflections and movements of the broad-shouldered man, his posture, when he inhaled, when he exhaled. The instructor encouraged physical focus. “Reach the crown of your head to the ceiling,” she might say. “Pull up with your heart. Draw energy from your stomach.” It was corny yet effective. I slowly inferred that yoga was not about physical ability, but breathing and concentration. Ironically, the more I focused on my muscles and the instructor’s words and the less I focused on the broad-shouldered man in front of me, the more meditative a state I achieved.

I was drenched in sweat the entire session. My skin was saturated in a layer of salty, smooth fluid that raced down my torso and left enough moisture on my yoga mat to sustain a marsh. It made me feel manly, accomplished, and most of all, disciplined. Unfortunately, a fart halfway through the session somewhat deflated this disciplined sensation.

Ninety minutes ended. The last exercise was purely meditative. Deep breathing. The lights dimmed, and I laid in the dark. The heat had become a calming force at this point. I reflected on my experience at Hot Yoga of Laurelhurst. It wasn’t wacky, it wasn’t adventurous, it wasn’t action-packed. I didn’t make a fool of myself, which in a sense, disappointed me. It was far from the barren desert I had anticipated. Rather, it was an oasis, fruitful and relaxing. Olivia agreed.

The two of us walked out onto the cool concrete deck of the studio, down the stairs, across the lit parking lot. We had returned to civilization, to Seattle, physically the most serene city in the country. Yet I felt a twinge of regret to be leaving a place of an inner serenity that I had never before experienced.