As promised, my sweaty date #2 with Mr. Hollywood commenced, the week after our first.
He challenged me to try his favorite (trendy) hip hop yoga class… Hot Yoga. Intimidated me a little with stories about other girls not being able to handle a 90 minute class.
I can handle yoga, but put me and an 85 degree room and suddenly I don’t feel so hot. Really.
Still, I wasn’t about to back down. He picked me up in his almost new Mercedes (check), swatted my hand away from my gym bag and paid for my class (check check) and introduced me to every ridiculously hot actress/housewife/fake titty bimbo in the waiting area (gentlemanly check). He wasn’t kidding when he said this is his jam; he knows everyone.
Class starts. It’s packed and everyone’s mats are literally touching – the most intimate class I’ve ever been to. Some semi-famous intructor leads and doesn’t even teach, just shouts out the poses above the tempo of the music and walks around correcting form.
I’m ridiculously thankful I (sort of) know what I’m doing. This is NOT amateur hour.
Ten minutes in and Mr. Hollywood rips his shirt off to reveal an impressive six pack (check check check), and as I deliriously look around I see why half the class came wearing bathing suits. I am literally dripping sweat and those around me are soaked in it. At least two people gave up and walked out before the end.
I survived without passing out, proving to myself (and this date of mine) that I can do anything I put my mind to. He even compliments me on my composure as we walk back to the car. It was very empowering.
I had plans for the afternoon so I politely declined his lunch invite – but I definitely want to see him again.