I caught up with a beauty-writer friend the other day. She looked glowier and sleeker than ever. Her secret? Not some new wonder cream. It’s bikram yoga. I’ve always wanted to be a bikram-ite. Everyone’s so bendy and lissome (don’t you love that word?) in their itsy-bitsy bikinis (yes, that’s what many girls wear there - seriously, it’s practically nude-yoga). One common criticism of bikram is that its body-beautiful benefits can attract people for the wrong reason - those into the skin-deep results rather than the spiritual side of most yoga practice. My friend reports that there are many male models in very V-revealing shorts at her studio, intently studying their physiques in the mirror throughout the entire class. I have no major issues with the vanity aspect (or, for that matter, the male-model eye-candy aspect). Surely there’s a bit of vanity at play in any exercise anyway? Whatever gets you going, I say. But I just can’t get into bikram. As much as my inner bikini babe wants me to. I’ve tried. One, I hate all the sweat (you perspire more in one bikram session than you normally would in a whole  summer). Two, I end up looking like a tomato in lycra. My dermatologist has actually banned me from bikram, because I have rosacea, which is exacerbated by heat. The cheeks also go wild after a round or two of rosé. My self-imposed exile from rosé is slightly less successful though…

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