Do you enjoy physical pursuits that bring you to the edge of your endurance? Think nothing of…read moresuppressing the need to, for instance, throw up in order simply to not let hard-core exercise win? Feel as if a little masochism isn't beyond your pleasure? Then don't read on and get your ass down to this yoga studio.
On the other hand, do you think yoga should be energising but in a relaxing way? Enjoy being warm but draw the line at exercising with blow heaters at your back, maintaining a tropical temperature? Like a calm vibe to your yoga class, and experiencing your teacher as your friend, as opposed to drill sergeant? If so, read on.
Because, no surprises, I'm of the latter camp. But that in itself isn't a reason to give a poor-star rating. And, in fairness, judging by the numbers who attend the classes there, clearly many would disagree with me.
To me, though, the whole attitude that prevails here is just not very yoga. I don't get it. There's the hard-sell approach that greets you, urging you to take up the special opening offer on three classes before you complete the first, but which is withheld after that first class - presumably because they think you're more likely to run and not come back unless you've made the big commitment. And they may well be right, but so what? Yoga isn't pushy, or at least it shouldn't be.
I found the 40 degree heat way too much, not helped by the horrendous smell in the carpeted, blow-heatered room, which fills up with people numerous times daily who understandably excrete inordinate amounts of sweat, but oh the results. It's tummy-turning and, in a heat-retention at all costs environment, there's no chance of a window opening between classes to introduce a little fresh air either.
Around half way through the first hour and a half class, the dizziness and nausea came washing over me like a river of tar, and I made for the door. A hand appeared outstretched in front of me. It seemed to be pointing to the floor. It was attached to a person who seemed to be regarding me as a dog, issuing a stern non-verbal instruction to me to, what, get back into a four-legged position? No, to kneel down? I pointed, to my stomach, made the international 'I'm going to puke' facial-pout. Down, girl, down, came the signalled response. I did as bid and knelt.
The blow-heater rounded on me again, this time more viciously than before. Followed by another crashing wave of nausea. Dots soared in front of my eyes. Before things went really belly up, I did the unthinkable. I ignored my master's instructions and bolted for the door, practically whining. Out I went, into the non-soup world of ample CO2. I gulped it in, head firmly between knees. The nausea slowly subsided. The dots settled and the haze began to clear.
The brain is a funny thing. How quickly it forgets. Re-positions itself. Calls into question the very things it held so certain, a short time ago, in changed circumstance. Calls you a wuss and a pussy for your lack of endurance when minutes before it begged you to break with the deluded collective consciousness that defined what was happening as health-inducing in any small way.
Three minutes later and back in I headed, ready to endure the walk of shame to my matted position in the far end of room smelly. But wait. The hand was stretching out before me again. Stop, it said. Move no further. It remained outstretched. I was to stay just inside the door.
The class continued for a couple more minutes, before the same hand beckoned me back to my small patch, accompanied by a strongly disapproving look. Oh, the shame. I averted my eyes, dropped my head, and did as bid.
I sweated it out hanging in there till the last awful minute, and left with my tail firmly between my legs.
I realised afterwards that I'd inadvertently committed the number one bikram sin - I'd walked out during a class. Less a sin because it pointed to my innate and disgraceful wussness, though that too, but ultimately because I did the unthinkable and introduced a waft of cooler air into the white heat, presumably endangering the whole masochistic status quo in one swift moment of reprieve.
I did prove myself a masochist, though, if a haypenny place one on the grand scale, as I returned once more. But this time, when I walked away, I was free from any lingering sense of failure or wuss-shame. I just knew it wasn't for me. For chrissake, lying back in a recliner armchair in 40 degree heat isn't for me, why would completing the yoga equivalent of a Continental marathon in high summer be?
Lots of people love it - the kinds I suspect that do run marathons, think nothing of completing triathlons before brekkie on a Sunday, and don't feel they've done something useful on holiday until they've conquered a mountain that involves taking breathing drugs for the top bit. But I'm not one of them, and the Elbow Room in Dublin 7 is now my best yoga friend.