Until now, I had stubbornly, and proudly kept one foot planted in my New England world of reticence and practicality. Ever proud to be pronouncing words like "quarter'' in the accent of the Boston Red Sox fan that I am, I hadn't quite thought of this California gig as a transformation (or of calling it a gig).
Then, I took a step, no a stride, well, actually a huge frickin leap to the Left side. I signed up my husband and myself for a Couples Yoga session. On Valentines Day. For three hours.
I had become a California cliche.
The gruff New Englander in me wishes she could tell you that only two tofu-loving couples showed up completely stoned out of their minds, and that we ran out of the incense-stinking room, and headed for the nearest greasy spoon, to devour buttermilk pancakes and Vermont maple syrup.
We did not.
The blonde wood floor of the room at Avalon Yoga in Palo Alto www.avalonyoga.com held at least 25 couples, from smooth-faced 20-year-olds to finely chiseled 60-somethings. Many of them were appropriately sheepish as they unrolled their yoga mats, and sidled up to their partners, looking as tentative as I felt as I settled in next to my husband of 14 years.
Before it was over, I would see the face of my decidedly non-yoga, basketball-with-the-boys husband go from tight and tense to looking more relaxed than I had seen it in a long time. In those three hours, we would feed each other chocolates, massage each other's weary muscles, and chuckle with the other couples when even the class leaders stumbled over exercises designed to help couples communicate lovingly during an argument when every bone in your body screams otherwise. We , too, practiced moves that drew us together and pulled us apart and then drew us together and pulled us apart again in a classic dance of intimacy. Then, we handed each other a single rose, hugged a yoga instructor we had never met before, and walked out the door.
My personal Californication was complete.
