yoga is a challenge.

i’ve taped several episodes on the dvr.  and i’ve tried.

oh, how i’ve tried.

i stretch.  exhale.  inhale.  reach.  hold.  pose.

but there is one little problem:  i cannot see the instructor when i am on all fours with my butt in the air and my head hanging down and my toes planted properly.

how am i supposed to know what i’m doing?  by the time i study the poses on the tv screen, the teacher and students have moved on to something else.  i can’t keep up.  i can’t produce a “soft face” when i am cursing at the television.

last night i yoga’d along with the “anxiety” yoga hour.

yes, an hour.

 it had been a busy day, with many phone calls from my agent about e-books and royalties and reversion amendments.  i’m late getting a synopsis to my editor and the work is going slower than i’d estimated.  my mother lost her wallet (we found it at the movie theater–thank you, whoever you are, for turning it in to the manager) and a confused banjo man has a new computer with mysterious windows 7.

i felt less crabby after the yoga hour, but i was also crippled.  my toes cramped.  my butt ached.  i groaned and moaned every time i had to get up off the couch.  banjo man saved the night and produced a surprise box of wheat thins he’d bought for an emergency.

he will never be a computer geek, but he sure knows what to do for a cranky wife.

i will not give up on yoga.  i need to find a beginners class somewhere.  a class with other people who have no idea when to exhale or what a plank is.

maybe it’s time to head to the local senior center.