More than a few years ago, I attempted a semi-serious effort to try new things, branching out from my usual realm of familiarity and comfort to seek new experiences.

I started attending yoga classes at the White Lotus Health and Wellness Center, a studio back home in Opelika, namely because my colleague Hilary goaded me into it.

“You should at least give it a try,” she said. “You never know, you may actually enjoy it.”

I went into these classes with a healthy amount of skepticism. I had long ago written off yoga as one of those “hippie dippy left-wing nutbar crazy” things that rational people such as myself did not do.

Of course, I then remembered that I’m seldom rational.

I’ll admit that my attendance at classes was sporadic at best. My schedule as a journalist had interfered with my attendance, as did my penchant for napping and needing decent amounts of free time to maintain what little sanity I have left.

I’ll also admit that my fitness level was both sadly and hilariously low. One look at me ought to be able to tell you that.

Looking back at the classes I went to, I can say that I feel I’m not terribly good at doing yoga.

I’m not sure that the practice of yoga is something that can necessarily be quantified with adjectives like “bad” or “good,” as I don’t think the point of yoga is to be competitive with one’s fellow classmates.

However, I could view my yoga mates’ poses from an aesthetic standpoint and come to the simple realization that their poses seem fluid and unforced. Mine usually resemble awkward shuffling or something not unlike having some sort of drug-induced seizure.

Because yoga also requires the frequent changing of body position and movement, there is the added fear of passing wind that gets added to each and every class. The fat guy is generally going to get blamed for such things anyway, but I didn’t want to give ammo to that argument.

My classmates were, for lack of a better term, winning at yoga. I, as I am with most sports or anything that requires even a modicum of physical activity, was not.

Such things happen when you spend a lifetime avoiding most meaningful forms of exercise as I have.

When I told my various friends about undertaking the classes, I received the requisite amount of scoffing and incredulity that I’ve come to expect from the people I love. It sounded crazy to me, too.

I’d come home from classes with sore muscles and sweat pouring down my face, looking not unlike Richard Nixon in the 1960 debate.

The pain was almost always worst the next day, as I hobbled around cursing under my breath the pains in my lower back and legs.

There were good things to come from yoga, in spite of my unwillingness to fully give myself over to its powers.

The focus on taking deliberate, well-trained breaths has actually continued to be a godsend.

I still may not be able to hold a downward dog pose for any meaningful amount of time (I think my body may naturally reject any pose that seems vaguely like a push-up), but I can breathe like a champion.

The ability to put the yoga mat down on the floor, lie on my back and just take 10 minutes out of my day to relax and focus on just breathing is phenomenal.

When stress appears, I go into my breathing and it gets a little bit better.

It may not fully fix the situation, but it certainly doesn’t make it worse.

I’m sure there will is more to learn and more I could seek out, and maybe along the way I might even find the path to true enlightenment and happiness.

Then again, maybe I won’t.

Namaste, dear readers.

Cliff McCollum is managing editor of Gulf Coast Media. He can be reached at cliff@gulfcoastmedia.com.