I found myself whispering this (slightly heinous) confession to one of my coworkers at Lululemon the other day. In the yoga capital of the world, I feel as if it's a secret that needs to be kept as tightly under wraps as Kim K's 8-months pregnant body in a bandage dress (try cleansing that image out of your head with ujayi breath). Anyways, call me a traitor, but I don't like yoga. Yes, I founded a yoga club at my school. Yes, I own multiple items of clothing that say Namasté. Yes, I had a brief delusional phase as a CorePower fiend. But then I fell out of love.

Given my sweat enthusiast peers, I've realized that not liking yoga is vaguely sacrilegious. I've even committed the unforgivable crime of walking out mid-vinyasa class, quite literally because I couldn't take the heat. Even YogaWorks, which remains the sole unheated outpost of the West, is a no-go for me in the summer. Turning up the temperature to the triple digits dehydrates, not detoxifies, and anyone who tells you otherwise has had their brains addled from too much Bikram. But before I'm attacked by super muscly tattooed guys wearing mandalas and wielding Manduka mats, if that's your thing, go for it. Just don't try to get me inside Hot8 anytime soon.

Below, me in Bali, during the height of my yoga phase: