I was lost, as usual, waiting to cross at the corner of New York City’s 47th Street when I heard this: “I’m only going to be in New York for 2 days,” said the slender, long-haired woman. “Well then you have to come to Bikram with me tomorrow,” her male, middle-aged friend/tour guide replied.

I’m already sick of guy friends asking if I do “the hot yoga,” so the man’s nearly instinctive response peaked my curiosity even further: What is this, some kind of cult? Ironically, I was a block from Bikram Yoga NYC, on my way to find out.

I filled out my have-you-ever-had-any-injuries forms (a broken kneecap 4 years ago) and changed in the locker room, self-consciously leaving my shirt over the spandex outfit I got from Shakti Activewear, “designed for hot yoga.” (Not so hot on me.) I prayed this meant the teeny shorts would not ride up during class. (Thankfully for my neighbors, this prayer was answered.)

“This is just like summer,” I thought, as I sat down in an eerily quiet room with other beginners. 105 degrees? Cake. (More like melted icing after about 5 minutes.) The girl next to me laid her towel on top of her mat, so I did too. You can only count your toes and look in the mirror so many times before you feel like the conceited girl, so I sat in silence and divided the time before the teacher came in by examining ceiling tiles, feigning important stretches, and wondering why everyone else looked so…professional.

At this point, I was already sweating. “Are you going to do the poses with us?” I asked the teacher. I felt like a yoga preschooler. (Should I ask to go to the bathroom too?) The teacher assured me that yes, she would do some of them, and explain exactly how to do each one.

She failed to explain, however, that she trained under the Micro Machines man. Not only did it feel as if steam was radiating from the bodies in the room, but I looked for smoke to come shooting out of her ears as she told us what to do faster than a know-it-all teenager. (Later, I realized, this was a good thing, as you can only balance on one leg for so long before aching to switch poses). It helped, too, that the heat made me much more flexible than usual—though it’s hard to grip sweaty ankles with sweaty hands. You name it, it was sweating.

Anyone with ears (sans smoke) can do Bikram—you could probably do it by watching, although it helps to hear where you should be feeling the burn. Even the macho guy in front of me lost his balance a heck of a lot but kept on truckin’. Twenty-six poses deep, I lost my balance a handful of times, and only once did I feel like I couldn’t breathe—primarily because the neck of my shirt blocked my inhale when I faced the mat and tucked my head in toward my belly. I'm pretty sure the class ended early on my beet-red account. When I finally did look at the clock, half curious, half desperate, there were only 5 minutes left. (Add that to the list of the longest 5 minutes of my life.)

“Did anyone not like it?” I asked my fellow first-timers as we lay on our mats, relaxing at the end of class. Again, the room was eerily silent, or maybe I was just a buzz kill.

A couple of things happened that I didn’t expect: Like the fact that three bottles of water would leave my system before the 90 minutes were up. Or, that I’d I leave in soaking wet spandex under my jacket because I practically had to wring out my shirt. (Hey, I wasn’t as bad as the older woman completely naked in the locker room after class—hell-o.) Most surprisingly, I never expected to get stung by the Bikram buzz—and actually enjoy it.