I conquered my second day of recovery Bikram last night. While I was victorious over the physical challenges, I continue to be astounded by the severity of the hygiene FAILS in the room. Last night, I sprayed the top of my towel with some Egyptian Cotton linen spray, so at least during the face-down postures, I smelled that instead of the vinegary twang of unwashed feet. Still, though, I left the studio with my stomach somewhere firmly between my uvula and esophagus, wishing for all the world that our shower had a steam-clean and sand-blast attachment.

I did manage to avoid the REAL stinker who’d pummeled me in the head and face with body reek on Monday night by going to the other side of the room (confirmed when leaving through a door on his side of the room that he is, indeed, the major offender in that quadrant.) I was doing well until an older fellow who may have been habitat-challenged, came in about 15 minutes late and plopped smack in front of me, yellowed boxers hanging out from his shorts, cussing up a storm during nearly every pose and smelling just really foul in a soured-person-in-a-convalescent-home way. Which, more power to him, and I appreciate that the studio works on an honor system sliding scale so anyone can practice… but LORDY! Can’t we have a mandatory hosing down for some folks?