Owwwww

In a nod to complete transparency, I feel I must admit now that the morning following the First Yoga, I am in considerable pain.

Ommmmm

So I've reached a new level of New Yorkitude. I never thought I'd do it. I poked fun at it. I experimented with some forms of it and concluded it was not for me. I secretly derided the legions of girls who did it, and mocked their knit capri pants.

But today, my friends, I did the yoga.

Oh, and it gets better. To do the yoga, I became a yoga member. Not of some gym--any New York yokel can walk into a gym, slap down three hundred bucks, and say they leg press 1200 pounds. No, sir. I joined a holistic spa. This ain't no free weights and disinfectant spray, babe. It's a incense-burning, inner-happiness-seeking, granola-munching haven for hippies.

I feel somewhat out of place.

But never ye mind, I felt out of place in Billyburg when I first moved here, and now I get my kicks out of seeing what these crazy kids are going to wear next. I will get used to it. Perhaps right after I use the sauna, free to members, and only ten dollars for guests.

In the meantime, though, I'm ecstatic. Now I can join the legions of late-twentysomethings who brunch on salmon benedict and commiserate about their Downward Dogs. (Note to self: either find a spot by the mirror and get your Dog right, or move across the room and quit caring.) If I play my cards right, maybe I can get one of those girls to explain the difference between the first three warrior poses, and how to do the tree position without falling. Wobbly ankles will be my yogic downfall.

We spent most of the time "opening" the sides and back, and Shayla's isolation exercises came flooding back to me. I have a lot of flexibility to regain!

Sun salutations all around. And pass the IcyHot.

Things I Am Not Allowed To Write About

1. Anything that Frenchy does
2. The defeat of France by England in the rugby World Cup semi-finals

It's not like I have sexy hip wordsmithy ideas very often, as proved by my irregular posting. In fact, I post so irregularly I could be a German verb. Take a spin through my archives, you'll see what I mean. So I take my inspiration from where I can, okay?

This evening's post-spiration comes from page 288 of November's Glamour, which showed up in our mailbox today. (Sweet, I just had to refer to the magazine to find the page number, and turned to the right page on the first try!) It's entitled "12 things in life never to take for granted." Which is quite a sexy hip wordsmithy twist on the November chestnut "Things I'm thankful for."

So, ado-less and furthery,

Things I Shouldn't Take For Granted

• Lady Grey tea when I post--creative juice, with just enough bergamot!


• A boyfriend that grumbles but caves almost without protest when I ask for a backrub


• Backrubs (and the warm touch of another human being)


• Floors that I don't care about so I can keep the window open at night when it rains and listen to the sound


• Just enough html knowledge to write this ordered list without having to look up the tags


• Being able to sew, and have my clothes actually fit


• The J train


• More books than I can shake a reading list at


• Just enough adventure in my soul to do crazy things, every once in a while, but not enough to get me seriously in trouble

Not a bad compendium, as compendia go.

For Mom and Dad

I think I nearly wet myself on this one.

Tee hee!

Reminds me of the years when I used to give people thyme for Secret Santa gifts, because "every working person needs more thyme!"