St. Patrick can bite my yoga-sore ass

Yesterday, rather than drinking myself off my ass, I hot-yoga'd my ass off. It was pretty intense, and left me with a headache, and very little will to do anything else but eat and lie in bed, I suppose much the same as the drinking would have done -- but with none of the calories!
Much as I do enjoy yoga (and this was incredible), I haven't done it in a while because it's hard to find people to come with me, and it's hard to get into the classes at the PEC. In between times I always forget, while it is relaxing, just how FLAKY yoga is, and just how too cynical I am to take it seriously. When yesterday the instructor had us lying on our mats, she started out with a "now just imagine in the heat that you're lying on a beach" and I thought, oh good, that I can do. But inevitably she went into that "free your mind, feel your internal organs detoxing, feel the energy suffusing your being" bullshit, and then I was staring at the ceiling, far far away from anything REMOTELY resembling a beach thinking, the only thing I feel is hot and there is an olympic-sized pool of sweat forming in the hollow of my solar plexus. Please, please can we stop trying to feel our beings and get on with the floor set.
I know. I'm such a bitch.