“Things will go better with yoga,” Trish says, throwing the pillowcase into the washer and giving me a side hug.

They don’t.

Along with Trish, I have two former colleagues from work and two wives of Scooter’s employees. Only Trish has done yoga before.

“Last time I exercised I wore leg warmers,” a woman named Dee cackles. Her hair is dyed red, and she has a big bow on one side of her head. Dee has shown up for yoga wearing mom jeans, while her friend, Sandy, sports a skirt and heels.

This is what I dreamed of? I think.

Trish looks at me and mouths, Smile!

“This is not about competition,” I begin. “This is not about competing with anyone else. This is about finding your inner strength and inner peace,” I say. “I’ll go slowly from pose to pose, and I will come around to adjust each of you as needed.”

“My husband’s the only who does that,” Dee says with a cackle.

I take a deep breath. “Still your mind,” I say.

“Let’s start with mountain pose,” I continue, standing straight, planting my feet firmly in the ground and positioning my hands in prayer at my chest level while pulling my shoulder blades back. “Shut your eyes. This pose requires us to be present and aware, to stand rooted and tall.”

I open my eyes. Dee and Sandy are standing as if they’re about to knock back a beer, legs loose, shoulders slumped. I walk over to position them. “Plant your feet in the ground,” I whisper to them. “Gently activate your quads to lift the kneecaps and stabilize your posture. Like this,” I say, demonstrating.

Both women seem incapable of standing straight without wavering. They resemble flower stems in a stiff breeze, waving to and fro unsteadily.

“Let’s move to child’s pose,” I say, lowering myself to my knees. “Bring your big toes together, spread your knees wide, sink your hips back over your heels as your chest lowers to the ground. Walk your fingertips to the front of the mat and relax your forehead down, allowing the chest to open and your mind to soften. Like this.”

I hear a series of alarming pops and look up to find Dee and Sandy lying flat on their stomachs as if they’re tanning on the beach. I walk over to them. “Like this, ladies,” I whisper.

“We can’t do that,” Sandy says. “Bad knees.”

“Have you tried?” I ask.

“Isn’t this close enough?” Dee asks.

“Let’s try downward facing dog, then,” I say, returning to my mat and demonstrating the pose.

“Who do you think we are,” Sandy says. “Jane Fonda?”

“Jane Fonda is eighty,” I say, my yoga demeanor dropping and the tension in my voice escalating. “And she can still do downward dog, I promise you.”

Trish looks up at me, her eyes wide. Smile, she mouths again.