Bikram yoga or death by a thousand degrees

OK, only about 105 degrees. I have now attended two Bikram yoga classes - suggested to me by a couple of people who swear by the heat, humidity and regimented routine of 26 poses bracketed by terrifying breathing exercises. I think I like it, or at least at this distance (four hours out) I like it. The room smells bad. I suppose there really is nothing to be done when a space is used day in and day out to contain straining, sweating humanity. I knew it wouldn't be fresh, but it really is something to be reckoned with. Then there is the heat. I consider not having had to run out before the end of the 90 minutes a major triumph. Of course, I have to find my triumphs somewhere because the class is a very rude reminder that I am not one of the flexible members of the human race. It is kind of humbling to actually be in a room with 30 or so people and really be the worst one there. This is not hyperbole and I have no illusions about measuring myself against the lithe, agile, willow people in the front row or the solid, tattooed vegan types, but I have never actually been the worst at something in a group setting (except maybe ballroom dancing). I am absolutely the worst. There are whole poses that I cannot even begin. This is largely due to my back problems since the tubing incident of last spring, but having short hamstrings and other rigid bits doesn't help. So we are all lying on our tummies and we are supposed to grasp our ankles with our hands so that we are like boats. the teacher had to come over and suggest I just try to grasp one side and switch off. I could almost manage that.