I have been nervously awaiting the arrival of the karma police since last night for giving off negative energy in a Bikram class. But what are you supposed to do when it's 98 degrees in the room and somehow 44 people decide to show up to sweat together. It's like Bikram Sardines, a class that might as well have been carried out in the artisan cheese section of Central Market. Not to mention, in such proximity every moisture soaked leg hair on the man next to me was visible, as well as the strikingly bearish patches of hair all over the back of the man in front of me, a man who looked like the bizarro world version of Ghandi. A Ghandi who lives in the suburbs, may have a computer job, and a slight pot belly on his very skinny frame. I wish he'd be the change I wished to see in the world and would put on some clothes. Which just opens up another area of my negative energy, this incredibly mind blowing sense of confidence that some of these people had with their bodies. I mean, I'm glad these people were exercising, but why feel the need to expose rolls upon rolls...I don't get it. Is a T-shirt really optional for everyone? And that's probably what my face said. But, when you're trying to be skinny and bridal and find yourself instead eating like a 14th century king drastic measures must be taken. So I'll give it another shot today at a time when hopefully all those stinky cheese people are at work. Now, I just have to try to get into a class that's not given by an auctioneer who feels like she must talk incessantly. So many mountains.