“What’s going on?” David had followed the sound of shouting into my office.
“She won’t shut up about her rivers and chakras and stop her heavy breathing long enough to teach me a pose,” I complained. “And she talks so slooowww. Jane was right,” I continued, invoking my eldest sister. “If I want to relax, I should just get a massage.” Jane had also said that she found yoga to be more stressful and annoying than relaxing.
David was laughing. I slapped at the keyboard until the woman was silenced and turned to find him holding his stomach, presumably from the pain of laughing so hard. “And what, may I ask, is so funny?”
David’s eyes were welling up with tears of hilarity. Between gasps for air, he said, “That’s the whole point!” and then fell back into a fit of laughter that eventually tapered to giggles, allowing him to explain himself while basking in the heat of my glare. “Yoga is all about breathing,” he chuckled. “It’s supposed to be slow and relaxing. You’re like an alcoholic complaining that there’s no open bar at the AA meetings.” David grinned with amusement.
“She sounds like she smoked a big spliff,” I muttered. “I don’t have patience for people who talk that slow. I just want to learn the poses without having to listen to some new-age hippie bimbo trying to speak Hindi.”
“Look,” David said, with a note of compassion. “Maybe yoga isn’t for you.”
“But all the websites said—”
“Shh,” he interrupted. “All they said was that if you want to stop suffering the effects of stress, you need to find ways to relax. I think I might be able to help you with that.” His amused grin morphed into a devilish smile.
“Oh yeah? And how’s that?” I prompted.
“A glass of wine, a hot, fragrant bath, and me,” he said.
My heart beat a familiar, comforting rhythm in my ears. I shut my laptop, accepted David’s outstretched hand, and said, “Lead on, maharishi.”