Ever since I moved to London, I've heard a lot about hot yoga. It seems at least once a week, I hear someone talking about going to a class and how great it was. I was pretty curious to see what all the buzz was about, so I headed down to a local studio to give it a try.

To give you a little background information, I grew up in a small town in Northern Ontario. Up in the Great White North, things move a little slower, and we don't have anything remotely close to hot yoga — damn, we didn't even get a Walmart until five years ago.

Growing up in a small country town, there are rules a man must follow to stay alive. Living there means you're constantly making choices to avoid being called a wuss by your buddies. If I were to mention to any of my friends that I was going to a yoga class, I would get berated so hard my grandchildren's grandchildren would still be called “sissy little yoga bitches.”

I ventured down to the yoga studio, which was located at the corner of Crack Head Alley and Hobo Stab Boulevard. The building looked like a meat packing plant or somewhere the mafia comes to take out snitches. Before making Scooby Doo-esque escape, I reminded myself I was a reporter, damn it, and so I headed inside.

I took off my shoes and headed to the front counter where the receptionist asked if I'd ever been there before, and as she got a good look at me, she already knew the answer. I was wearing a cutoff New England Patriots t-shirt, shorts I found at Value Village and rocking a nine-day beard — I don't exactly look like the usual clientele that come here to find inner peace. She handed me a waiver to sign that basically stated I couldn't sue the company if I passed out. I took it as more of a challenge than a precaution.

I entered the “hot room” and was the only one there. It was a large and open room with hardwood floors and mirrors covering the walls. My first impression was that this place wasn't even that hot. In my mind when I thought of “hot yoga,” I thought we were going to be inside a steaming hot sauna; this felt more like a sunny spring day.

I lay down my rented yoga mat and bleach-stained beach towel to start warming up. The only stretches I knew were from high school football practice; I did a few power lunges and was ready to go. As more people came into the room, I could feel their eyes sizing me up like I was an undercover cop trying to dive into the dirty world of yoga. Just call me Donny Brasco.

More and more people filed in until the whole room was packed tighter than a can of sardines. I was surprised it was this busy for a noon hour class — I had been hoping it'd be smaller so I didn't have to make an ass out of myself in front of a crowd. I was one of four guys there, though I was the only one not wearing a headband. The main demographic of the class appeared to be middle-aged women in their matching $100 Lululemon yoga pants and tank tops who recently had bitter divorces and needed somewhere to work off those appletinis before getting back into the bar scene.

The instructor walked in and introduced herself and I immediately tried to think of the word for female douche. Douchette? Ladydouche? She started describing in yoga terms what we were going to do, but I could tell she was talking out of her ass. It should be illegal for any 24-year-old suburban white girl to use the phrase “Use your chakra to guide your pranayama.” Seriously, where do you go to become a yoga instructor? Is it one of those things you take online or is there a weekend course at Devry University?

The instructor turned on the stereo to put on the classic yoga music that has been passed down from the great yoga masters: Snow Patrol and John Mayer. Yes, when the ancient Indians invented yoga hundreds of years ago, they envisioned that someday people would be finding their inner peace to shitty soft rock ballads. Don't get me wrong, “Chasing Cars” is a great song, but I'm trying to exercise here.

We started doing the Reverse Downward Dog and Crane Plank to Half-Moon Trifold, and I began working up a sweat. These moves may sound more like sex positions than workout stretches, but I can guarantee they are difficult — especially if you have no idea how to do them.

I spent the entire class looking at this girl beside me to find out just what the hell I was supposed to do. She was obviously a seasoned veteran of the class and knew every move before it came up. Thank God she didn't look back or I would have looked like a creeping panting dog just staring at her.

The thing about yoga is that it's all about rhythm and flow. If you're a newbie like me, you'll have a hard enough time standing up straight and doing the poses without adding inhaling and exhaling into the mix. The instructor kept telling the class to take it at their own pace, but she only said that when she was near me. I got a little offended; I'm a man, I can do whatever these menopausal women can do.

Boy, was I wrong.

Whatever I said in the beginning about the place not being hot was bullcrap. At this point I was sweating more than Mike Tyson in a spelling bee. The women were not even breaking a sweat as I was looking like a contestant in the first couple episodes of The Biggest Loser.

I now understood why they made everyone sign waivers. We were only 20 minutes in and I wanted to quit. In a moment of weakness, I was thinking, “Screw it, I got the story, I'm going to quit,” but I knew I couldn't live with myself if I gave up.

Everyone was in sync, doing the moves with such fluidity. This was difficult sometimes because we were so cramped together and had to stretch out. The guy behind me only got kicked in the head twice before he decided it was a good time to move over.

Finally the instructor told us that the session was over and we could stay there and relax as long as we wanted. This was my cue to get the hell out of there. My legs might have been shaking and my sweat could have filled a pool, but I had finished the class. I got dressed quickly and was dismissed with a “Namaste.” I think she was expecting one back, but I don't participate in weird cult rituals.

As much as I rag on yoga, I have to say it was one of the toughest workouts I've ever done. Let's remember, this was the beginner class. I'm a 6'4, 180-pound guy. I think I'm in pretty good shape, but this yoga class kicked my ass. Dainty blonde girls were showing me up so hard I felt like I had to go kill an animal or build a log cabin afterward to regain my manhood.

I left the studio on a positive note. I felt really refreshed and limber after a nice sweat like that, but I want to warn any first-timers who are interested: you are not going to know what you're doing. Don't worry; everyone's too wrapped up in their own journey to find the inner light that they won't even notice you struggling. I would definitely go back again but with a more open mind. With a bit of practice, I could be the next star of the class.

If not, I'll just rent out a crack house, crank the furnace, buy an Alanis Morrisette album, throw on a bath robe and teach my own class.