Near the end of hot yoga last week, the instructor asked everyone in the room to consider kissing their knees. I did not consider it. Not because I'm incapable of or above putting my lips on my own sweaty knees, but because kissing them is goofy.

My only previous encounter with hot yoga had been back in the oughts, when people still called the internet the World Wide Web. But between this Christmas and New Year's, thanks to a promotional trial week offered by a local yoga chain, I found myself unrolling a grease-stained yoga mat (borrowed from my sports-shooting tackle box) in a dark room heated to 107.4 degrees Fahrenheit.

I walked in, disoriented not so much from the heat as from the preponderance of mindful-looking people talking in teeny-tiny voices.

In all, I attended three "hot power yoga" sessions, the first of which required almost every ounce of physical and mental energy I could muster (followed by an afternoon nap). Those who know me know I don't mind looking stupid — briefly — for a worthy cause and, more to the point, I refused to be the "gym guy" who couldn't handle an hour of infernal chaturangas.

Being open to whatever happens next is not how we're trained to exist as adults. Instead, we plan, execute, revise and re-execute until our ships are moving aggressively against whatever opposes our interests. But that's not yoga. Yoga, as the instructors reminded each class, was about letting go of expectations and end games and giving yourself a break.

And that's when I heard the yogi say: "Your body is not you."

It's funny, just writing that phrase makes my throat clutch and my eyes well up.

Your Body is Not You. Give It The Compassion It Deserves.

I think I get emotional because, probably like a lot of you, I put hard expectations on my body. It's always performed at or above the standard I've established. When it hasn't, I've come down hard on it, seeking repair, improvement and — always — performance. I would never do that to someone else.

And yet, I have. Because my body is not me. It's a separate entity from Paul, the guy with seven orthopedic surgeries to his name; the guy who now tells himself to go a little lighter at the gym; the guy trying not to fall over sideways while attempting tree pose in the sweat-soaked darkness.

There's something that happens to athletic people as they age. We carry around a mental image of ourselves formed in our twenties — an image of easy capability, of a body that recovers overnight and rarely says no. When reality diverges from that image, the temptation is to push harder, to discipline the body into compliance.

The yoga people have a different framework. The body, they suggest, is something we inhabit, not something we are — a partner, not a subordinate. Partners require negotiation, patience and, geez, a healthy dose of forgiveness.

My body is not me. Just as I deserve compassion, so too does my body. It deserves a regular break from me and my expectations.

The Physical Incarnation I Previously Regarded as Me

My conclusion, after holiday yoga, is that I've been too hard on this one body of mine. It has performed well over the years, and now it sometimes struggles to keep up. (Although, it's worth asking: Keep up with what?)

Maybe it's time to revise my expectations rather than punish the physical incarnation I previously regarded as me.

I don't know if I'll continue hot yoga, though I hope I will. The invaluable lesson I've already learned from those three sessions is that my body is not me and it deserves my respect and compassion at regular intervals.

To find out more about Paul Von Zielbauer and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Samantha Sheppard at Unsplash