The room was a toasty 102°F. The air was thick with the exertions of two-dozen hardworking , mostly midlife women who were inhaling, exhaling, grunting and groaning their way through a vigorous series of twenty-six yoga poses. I was one of the grunters. This was my first foray into Bikram or hot yoga, a ninety-minute work-out performed in a high-temp, steamy environment said to enhance both muscle flexibility and detoxification through (let’s be classy about this) “profuse perspiration.” I was dripping onto my yoga mat, creating little puddles as I moved from posture to posture, leaving sweaty hand and footprints in my wake. During one particularly challenging downward dog sequence, I slipped, slid across my puddled mat, managed a spectacular face-plant and gave myself a bloody nose.