Just Breathe

He said I was inflexible. Frankly, I’ve been called worse. Besides, it wasn’t exactly news; I haven’t been able to touch my toes since high school. And even that was a stretch.

I’ve certainly thought about this before. Over the course of 32 years of running — my pace probably says jogging, but my competitive spirit calls it running — one does ponder the long-term effects of the occasional aches and pains, stiffness and discomfort that can accompany such a physically demanding pastime.

Especially lately, when “occasional” has shifted to frequent and even enduring. My hips ache, my lower back is stiff. And my doctor called me inflexible.

At least he didn’t say rigid.

I’ve talked about taking yoga for 20 years. I’ve checked into courses but never stepped into class. I’ve bought videotapes but left them sealed in their protective plastic wrappers. I’ve even tried a few of the moves suggested in women’s magazines. But I have never actually taken yoga.

A girlfriend suggested Pilates.

I had heard of it, but never bought the tapes.

Still, I’ll try anything once as long as I know what to wear. Something soft, stretchy, and supportive, I imagined; something that would work both with me and for me. Something that would make me look the part. Which was what, exactly? Something loose and forgiving, able to hide a season of indulgence? Something a little more flexible and formfitting? Practically an oxymoron.

The first thing I observed upon arriving at my initial Pilates class was that nobody noticed what I had on.

In fact, nobody spoke. Ever. Throughout the entire hour, not a word, not a giggle, not a grunt. Except the instructor, whose voice rose like a lullabye from the music, luring us into a stretch.

Instead, the group sounded like a steam engine, taking a collective drag off the waning air in the room and exhaling it with a whoosh that could likely propel everyone across the floor. Mostly it inspired the muscles to move.

I, on the other hand, had a tendency to hold my breath, bearing down on my abs or my glutes or whatever major muscle group had been called into action as though I were gunning for a finish line.

“Remember to relax your arms, to move fluidly, to breathe deeply, inhaling and exhaling with every release and contraction,” the instructor said.

I pursed my lips and released what sounded like an aborted whistle.

Lying flat on our backs, arms and shoulders relaxed, everyone raised their legs, knees straight, toes pointed, in a V-shape toward the ceiling and held them in place for the first of several counts of eight.

Knees bent, toes pointed, I lifted my legs in a kind of U-shape toward the mirror, realizing, in horror, that the higher my legs went, the bigger my stomach became. My legs began to shake. A lot.

I turned my head to the left and to the right, observing that everyone else was facing skyward, eyes closed, and breathing steam. “Doesn’t this hurt anyone else?” I wanted to scream.

“Doesn’t anyone else feel like yelling? How can you be so calm?” I brought my hands to my inner thighs and grabbed on for dear life, hoping to stall the quaking in my quads.

“I can’t do this,” I realized. “I can’t. I can’t do anything. I can’t get the kids out the door on time. I can’t get my work done. I can’t quit the chocolate. If I hadn’t eaten those Hershey’s Kisses®, my stomach wouldn’t be poking out right now.”

“Breathe,” the instructor whispered.

And so I breathed. I breathed and I breathed and I breathed until it became steam.

And suddenly, I noticed the music. I closed my eyes and reached inward, working with my muscles instead of observing them. With my eyes shut, I couldn’t see how it all looked; I only knew how it felt.

And it felt better. I might even say I felt a sense of well-being closing in on the chaos in my head. And I realized that I didn’t have to become an expert at Pilates. And I certainly didn’t have to look good. I simply needed to benefit from it.

~