Finding inner peace can be hard work

Experts agree flexibility is the key to any lasting relationship. Happy couples know how to bend, stretch and go with the flow. My husband, Derek, is not flexible. He’s big, strong and muscular, but his joints are tighter than Paris Hilton’s jeans. With that in mind I invited Derek to take a yoga class with me.

Now, I hadn’t tried yoga myself, but I have seen Wai Lana Yoga on public TV. I’ve watched her balance languidly atop a cliff with the ocean waves pounding below and a soft Hawaiian breeze rustling the lei draped gracefully around her neck. Really, it seemed like an activity tailor-made for me.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an affordable ocean-side class, so we joined one at our neighborhood fitness club. On the first night, we found a spot in the back corner of the gym and rolled out our yoga mats. Derek was pleased to see another middle-age man and a young adult fellow in the class made up primarily of women over 35.

Leslie, our instructor, spoke softly and guided us into the first position, the child pose. I tucked my legs under my bottom and stretched forward, resting my forehead on the floor. “Inhale,” Leslie encouraged. “Fill your lungs with air.”

I like this, I thought, and then I heard a muffled groan. Next to me, Derek was having difficulty finding his inner child. There was no way his forehead was going to touch the floor.

“Listen to your body,” Leslie intoned as we drew ourselves upright. We folded ourselves into plank position. “Exhale all the way out,” our instructor murmured. A gust of wind almost toppled me as my husband enthusiastically complied.

Gradually, Leslie guided us into more difficult poses. Twenty minutes into the class, Derek was dripping perspiration all over his new mat. “Listen to your body and stop pushing yourself so hard,” I hissed as he tried to entwine his beefy arms into an impossible knot.

“I am listening to my body,’ Derek whispered back. “It says if they can do it, I can do it.” He gestured to a couple of 50-something ladies. Apparently, he thought yoga was a competitive sport.

As the class progressed I, too, began to feel the burn. Wai Lana never looked sweaty, I grumbled to myself as I twisted my tortured torso. And Leslie moved effortlessly through the poses. She was all of the elegant L words – lean, lithe and limber. I’m more like the clumsy C words – chunky, clunky and creaky.

While my husband struggled with the positions that challenged flexibility, the balancing poses proved to be my undoing. I didn’t feel so bad about my wobbly tree pose when the lady next to me toppled over. “Timmmberr …” I whispered.

Every now and then Leslie uttered phrases in an unfamiliar language. I thought she was speaking in tongues. Who could blame her? I needed divine intervention myself. Turns out she wasn’t praying, she was calling out the yoga poses in Sanskrit.

I began to recognize repeated positions and stopped looking for someone’s missing pet every time Leslie said, “Down dog.”

Two instructions came easily to me: inhaling and exhaling. But I always seemed to be inhaling when I was supposed to be exhaling. Frankly, I was worried Derek was going to stop breathing all together.

As we tucked our heads down and extended an arm for the triangle pose, I turned toward my husband. “Yoga is hard,” he said, wide-eyed and panting.

Yoga devotees enthuse about tranquility and inner peace, but I guess those things don’t come without a lot of sweat equity. And I’m wondering how many of those marriage experts have attempted yoga with their spouses? I’d like to see Dr. Phil and Robin glide into the warrior three without wobbling or squabbling.

At the conclusion of the class, I discovered we both had a natural gift for the ending pose, the shava-asana or corpse. Lying flat on our backs, completely still, palms facing upward, we took deep breaths.

We could have held that pose all night, but Leslie made us roll up our mats and go home. I’m sure Derek’s snores had nothing to do with it.