Last week, I made a brief visit to a bookstore in Des Moines. I found a half-used gift card and wanted to use it up before it was lost and figured that a trip to the bargain-book section would be the best place to fritter away five dollars.

Although many of these books are in the section for a very good reason, it’s tough to resist looking at a few, then a few more and then all of them, making sure there aren’t any hidden underneath the shelves.

Sometimes there’s nothing I really need, and the discounts aren’t all that great, but I end up thinking, “If I don’t buy, it’s like I lit my money on fire and flushed it down the toilet at the same time!”

Then I become stressed out and try to find the one book that balances my interest level with my savings. It’s a bit ironic, then, that I walked away with a book on relaxation.

Earlier in the semester I mentioned my interest in losing weight, but I didn’t mention the fact that I have had an on-and-off relationship with yoga. At the same time as exercising without moving, I could supposedly relax and reduce stress.

Only problem? I’m out of shape, and yoga hurts. It really hurts. So I picked up the relaxation book. Maybe I was just doing something wrong, and the yoga section would help me out. But after getting home, I decided I wasn’t in the mood for pain, and so I flipped to the meditation section.

I have attempted meditation before as well, but usually get a bit bored. Clearly, the book understands, as it tells me in bold letters “Do not meditate in bed.”

Yet, I’m just not sure that I’ve got the right brain for such activities, feeling symptoms of something just short of attention deficit disorder.

At events at school, on vacation and other places I have participated in hypnotism demonstrations, but never get very far as my focus turns to thoughts of eating Yorkshire pudding in Bath, England when I was six, which reminds me that I should take a bath when I get home, but that I should pick up some chicken from the store on the way home and look at the price of a digital camera which could be used to take pictures of me right now half-heartedly making chicken noises. Focusing on one white light is sort of tough for me.

However, the benefits of meditation are clear. Details on WebMD.com of a recent study of a ten-week women’s group program that included meditation, showed that 34 percent of the women became pregnant within six months. They also had “significantly less anxiety, depression, and fatigue.” I figured I could benefit from the latter. After all, what’s good enough for the dodgy sounding “Psychosomatic Journal” is good enough for me.

So I first attempt to count my breaths as I close my eyes as my book suggested. This works until I get the “1 2 3 4 5, 6 7 8 9 10, 11 12” song from Sesame Street in my head. Then I hear the fan creaking. Then my neck hurts.

Maybe chanting will help? I try the repeating the Tibetan Buddhist mantra “om mani padme hum.” Unfortunately, instead of enlightenment, I conjure up The Fugees. I find my self slowly saying “aahooow many miiics do you rock on the daileee.” I give up for awhile.

The next morning I read through a bit more of the book before realizing that it’s nearly time for me to catch the bus. Somehow, I catch enough to find out I can try meditating on the bus. I try counting my breaths again, thinking that the background noise will keep my mind from totally losing track.

I begin to ignore what’s going on around me, but can’t help but hear the people behind me complaining about their statistics class. I try another chant, but the complaints become lodged in my head. My mantra becomes “Sheeeee-teeeea.” The realization that I’m swearing at the divine union of love and the universe wakes me up once again.

This time, though, I don’t open my eyes. I just let all my thoughts fly, and somehow it works. I feel more relaxed; I don’t fall asleep, and the morning is off to a great start. I found something that the gift card couldn’t buy — visualizing absolute nonsense. So if you see me on the bus with my eyes closed, don’t bother trying to wake me up. I’m probably just imagining Joseph Stalin’s head singing the “Macarena” with noodles spinning around his head in the middle of the Communist Waterpark. Oh, but to be at peace and in Soviet Russia.