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Unnatural PoiseLearning the Alexander Technique.

By Laura MoserPosted Tuesday, June 12, 2007, at 12:01 PM ET

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The Alexander TechniqueEarly on, I kept waiting for specific exercises, rather like the foreign-language drills that had enlivened my school days. Instead, a typical lesson would begin with Julie "adjusting" my spine or shoulder or wrist—whatever ached most that week. She'd shift my body weight forward, or backward, joint by joint. We'd discuss these adjustments at every stage. She'd ask me how I felt, what changes I perceived. Then, when it came time to assess my profile in her full-length mirror, we'd marvel at the dramatic improvements. The second half of the class—my reward—I'd spend lying on the table, passively enjoying Julie's minute manipulations.

While I enjoyed the lessons, Julie's slippery directives and probing Q&As caused me occasional frustration. Why couldn't I just learn the damn thing and be done with it already? Sure, I felt better immediately following the weekly sessions. I floated home upright and supple and balanced. But these sensations inevitably wore off by the next morning, and for the life of me I couldn't re-create them. I wondered if my money might be better spent on massage.

Because even if the benefits of a good massage also faded pretty quickly, at least it didn't wound my self-esteem. I could not say the same for the Alexander Technique. God, but I was bad at it! Those first months, I was sure that only people who inhabited their bodies professionally—pole-vaulters and ballerinas and other such aliens—had any hope of truly assimilating the nebulous theories.

In the end, I stuck with Alexander because my teacher had become an indispensable sort of therapist-figure to me. Just by poking at my jaw, Julie could tell how stressed, or lazy, I'd been over the past week. And, as the months passed, she started to dispense the sort of concrete, instant-gratification guidance I longed for. She helped me set up an ergonomic workspace, and gave me tips for flying long distances without the usual muscular hangover. (The secret: staying on your feet, schmoozing in the flight attendants' cubby.)

Somewhere along the way, without even really registering it, I became an A.T. convert. (See how casually I abbreviate?) Which isn't to say I'm past my ineptitude. I often fear I still can't distinguish between "natural poise" and pernicious habit. But I have learned to slow down, to think before I move. And having accepted that the world will always be a little short for me, I now pad chairs with dictionaries and phone books to elevate my hips above my knees. I never travel, not even on the subway, without a chiropractic chair insert that elicits envious comments from elderly passengers.

I doubtless could've perfected my college Russian in the time I've spent puzzling over the terminus of my spine. But since it took me so many years to screw up my body this thoroughly, it'll probably take me at least as long to straighten it out.