I gave Hubby a copy of the intense P90X DVD workout program for Christmas.
Now, I know giving a exercise videos or a gym membership could be construed as a rather rash gift. Certain women, if they received such a not-so-subtle hint, might turn like a rabid pit bull on their partner until placated with jewelry or tremendous ass-kissing (pun intended). But my Hubby had been strongly hinting about how he wanted to work out more, so I thought I’d help him out.
Needless to say, the DVDs have not left their box. Until today.***
He decided we should do the 90 minute yoga program. Together.
Though I am most certainly not a pro, I’ve been practicing yoga once or twice a week for about a year. I was hooked from my first class with my current yoga instructor. She replaced a teacher who was more suited for barking boot camp orders than balancing chakras. That fearsome woman nearly drove me to tears when I couldn’t get up to a full headstand my first class. (I still can’t, and have no desire to try.)
But I could have a total girl crush on this new instructor, if I was the type to do such things. Her voice soothes like the waters of a steamy hot spring, her words encourage to stretch and soar, her hands melt skin when she gently moves a shoulder or hip for an adjustment. She could make a fortune lulling people to sleep each night like she eases us into our final relaxation pose (Shavasana) after each class.
Back the husband.
He’s flexible. He’s an athlete. He’d never tried yoga. He thought it was just an easy way to waste an hour practicing breathing (don’t we do that anyway?) and stretching like a 5-year-old might before t-ball practice. If 100-year-old skeletal Indian guys do it, so how hard could it be?
Heh, heh, heh….
After ten minutes his breath sounded irregular and craggy. I warned him no panting was allowed. After 15 minutes, he worked up a slick of sweat. I tossed him a bath towel. After 30 minutes, he struggled to stay on his feet and his balance and positioning resembled my elderly grandmother trying to get up with a broken ankle.
But he wasn’t half bad for a beginner.
Granted, I did strip down from flannel p.j.s to a tank top and turned on the fan. And perhaps it was a bit tricky to keep traction on a 30-year-old camping mat while the cat licked my toes. But I was just fine. And perhaps gloating…just a wee bit.
“So, still think yoga is for sissies?”
“You are putting it nicely,” he panted. “Yoga ain’t for pussies.” He sopped up his sweat with a bath towel before he collapsed.
But he finished. And enjoyed himself. And he’s going to be hurting tomorrow like he ran the NYC Marathon (uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow). Maybe we’ll do it again together next Sunday.
*** Note: I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Since then, Hubby has been a trouper, and he now tries to do the yoga DVD a few times a week. He no longer looks like my Grandmother. And once in a while, Kiddo will even attempt a little bit of yoga zen.