Let’s get one thing straight: I am not an “exercise person.” In fact, if I were dating some smart, hilarious, darling and hot dude who was otherwise perfect but had a penchant for enthusing about his early morning gym regimen, I probably wouldn’t call him again. Overtly healthy people annoy me, maybe because they have an irksome way of making me feel guilty that my favorite leisure activities involve a glass of wine and a Parliament Light. OK, OK, I wasn’t always exactly a lazy slouch: I was a serious ballet dancer until the age of 18, and I ran and practiced some yoga in college. But since moving to New York almost a decade ago, let’s just say my workout history can best be summed up as “slightly cloudy with a chance of pizza.”
So how the hell did I become the kind of person who did one of those disturbing-sounding “Hot Yoga for 30 Days” challenges?
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