Page 23 of From Wink to Kink

Intense? Please. I eat intense for breakfast.

The instructor walks in, a guy who looks like he's made entirely of lean muscle and mindfulness vibes. "Welcome, beautiful souls," he says in a voice smoother than top-shelf whiskey. "Let's begin our practice with sun salutations."

Sun salutations. Sounds pleasant enough. Like maybe we're going to wave at the sky or something.

It’s then that reality hits. Sun salutations, it turns out, are a rapid-fire series of poses that make my standard pregame warm-up look like a leisurely stroll. We're flowing from standing to plank to something called ‘chaturanga,’ which I'm pretty sure is Sanskrit for ‘push-up from hell,’ and back up again.

Five minutes in, and I'm sweating like I've just played a triple overtime. My arms are shaking, my legs feel like jelly, and we haven't even gotten to the ‘real’ poses yet. I glance around, hoping to see fellow sufferers, but everyone else seems to be flowing through the movements with the grace of a swan. Meanwhile, I'm flopping around like a fish out of water.

"Now, let's move into Warrior Two," Master Flex announces.

I glance around, trying to mimic the pose everyone else seems to know by heart. It's like a game of Twister, only instead of colored dots, you're trying to touch your own personal version of hell. I've got one leg bent, the other straight behind me, and my arms are... somewhere. Probably not where they're supposed to be, judging from the looks I'm getting.

"Chuck," the instructor calls, and after I wonder for a moment how he knows my name, I have hope. Maybe he's going to tell me I'm a natural, that I should quit hockey and become a yogi. "Your back leg should be straight, and your arms parallel to the ground."

Nope. No praise. Just pointing out how badly I'm screwing up. Fantastic.

As I attempt to adjust myself, I can't help but notice the women surrounding me. Sure, there are a few guys scattered about, but they are in the minority. And damn, these ladies are in good shape. There's one in front of me who's holding the pose like she was born in it, her legs toned and... wait,focus, Newcomb. You're here to find your inner something-or-other, not to ogle your classmates.

"Now let's flow into a vinyasa," the instructor says, and I swear I hear a collective groan from the class. That can't be good.

Turns out, a vinyasa is yoga-speak for ‘let's see how many times we can make Chuck faceplant into his mat.’ I follow the leader and end up moving from high plank to low plank to upward dog to downward dog, and the sweat pouring off me creates a huge, wet puddle on my mat.

"Remember to breathe," the instructor calls out, floating around the room like some kind of yoga pixie. Breathe? I'm lucky I'm still conscious.

We move into something called ‘Chair Pose,’ which is basically just squatting with your arms in the air. Easy, right?Wrong.We're holding it. And holding it. And holding it some more. My thighs are on fire, my arms feel like lead, and I'm pretty sure I'm sweating from places I didn't even know could sweat.

"Now for a balance pose," the instructor says, and I have to stifle a groan. Balance? At this point, I'll be lucky if I can stand without toppling over.

He demonstrates ‘tree pose,’ standing on one leg with the other foot pressed against his inner thigh, arms raised overhead. It looks simple enough. I've got balance, right? I mean, I skate on knife-thin blades for a living.

I lift my right foot, trying to place it against my left thigh. It will only go as far as my calf, but so far, so good. I start to raise my arms, and... nope. I'm wobbling like a rookie on hisfirst skates. I hop around on one foot, arms windmilling wildly, before saving myself by putting my other foot down on the ground, where it belongs and where it should probably stay.

The woman next to me stifles a giggle. "You okay there, big guy?"

I flash her a grin, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity. "Just testing the durability of the mat. Seems pretty sturdy."

By the time we finally—FINALLY—make it to the end, I'm a quivering mess of jelly limbs, bruised ego, and humble pie. We're supposed to be in something called ‘savasana,’ which as far as I can tell means ‘lie on your back and contemplate your life choices.’ Trust me, I'm doing plenty of that.

As I lie there, eyes closed, I can't help but marvel at how thoroughly this yoga class has kicked my ass. I've been through grueling practices, brutal games, punishing workouts. But this? Forward bends? If I were made to bend over and touch my toes, never mind the floor beneath, I would have been given much longer arms. As it is, my hamstrings are screaming for mercy and I’m not even moving. This is a whole new level of physical torture. And the craziest part? A tiny voice in the back of my mind is already wondering when the next class is.

When the instructor finally releases us with a soft ‘namaste,’ I peel myself off my mat, feeling like I've aged fifty years in the span of an hour. I gather my things, including what's left of my dignity, and shuffle out of the pavilion.

As I drag myself back to my bungalow, I'm pretty sure I've discovered a couple new muscles I never knew existed. They're all screaming at me like I did them wrong and now they’re out to make me pay.

So much for "how hard can it be?"

I fumble with my key, finally managing to stagger into my room. God, I need a shower. Maybe ten showers. And possibly a new body.

I start peeling off my sweat-soaked clothes, wincing as I lift my arms over my head. Note to self—maybe don't sit in the back next time. Turns out, you can't see what the hell you're supposed to be doing because you’re upside down most of the time. You end up looking like a drunk octopus trying to untangle itself.

I'm down to my boxer briefs, contemplating if I have the energy to actually make it to the shower. I no doubt stink to high heaven, but the thought of even turning the water on sounds painful.

That’s when I hear a click, and my door swings open.

Jesus, they usually knock before they come in for turn down service.

I turn, thinking once housekeeping sees me in my skivvies, they won’t ever walk in again without knocking first.

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