Saturday, September 13, 2014


• The yoga teacher training thing I’m doing starts this weekend. When an email with our homework arrived last week it occurred to me that this might actually require some effort. Part of the homework: reading chapters from an Eckhart Tolle book. I am reading Eckhart Tolle. I hereby welcome y’all to The Twilight Zone.

Jim and I love that Dustin lives with us. And in saying that I do mean that I personally love having him and not just because it makes me happy to see his dad enjoying having his son around. Dustin is considerate and hilarious and is therefore a treat.

• I've said before that different yoga necessitates different types of mats. Mats for Bikram need to be able to stand up to rivers of perspiration and not hold onto the rancid sweat funk. Power yoga mats need to be durable. Power yoga mats, like, say, a Manduka, do not belong in the Bikram yoga room. They are so dense that they soak up the sweat. And then they reek. Earlier this week I was next to a guy in class who uses a dense vinyasa mat for Bikram yoga. Now I hate him. When we got to the floor I identified where the fetid smell was coming from. I started inventing new ways to breathe through my nose without actually taking in the stink. I spent the mid-class corpse pose fantasizing about spilling bleach.

• When Jim brought me flowers the other night he apologized for not doing it more often.

I can’t stand the abbreviation “veggies.” Really, it’s gonna kill you to say vegetables? (If you’re reading this and thinking, “Yikes! Have I said ‘veggies’ in front of Megan?” as I know some of my friends do when they read this kind of thing, please know that I have no recollection if you did and you don’t need to try to avoid using that word around me. I really am going to make it through either way.)

• Today I had Jim listen to my knees as I moved them. They are total shit and have the crispy crackle of plastic wrap. 

• The other night as we were putting away the groceries Jim told me how there had been some hiccups in the online ordering system, and instead of the grocery people bringing out his order like they were supposed to, he had to go into the store. He told me about the nettlesome interruption in his day when the personal shopper called to say that they didn't have the quantity of ClifBars that he ordered and would it be okay if they just gave him what they did have. We’re jabbering on about these immense inconveniences and Dustin says, “Do you hear how stupid you guys sound? ‘Ugh. I had to, like, go into the grocery store!’” He wasn’t wrong. We sounded exactly as stupid as I sound when I complain that this housekeeper doesn’t tuck in the flat sheet on our bed like I like.

• I walked into a doctor’s office that I’ve been calling on for seven or so years and when the receptionist greeted me with, “Hey, tiny!” it didn't feel wrong. I am tiny and being tiny isn’t a bad thing. I’ve always been one of the shortest kids and I finally like that about myself. But if I were big and she said, “Hey, fatty!” or “Hey, giant!” it would be inappropriate and I’d be devastated. The first is an acceptable term of endearment. The other might get you killed.

• In this house there isn't a door closing off the master bedroom from the bathroom, just an arched opening. When Jim gets up early and has to turn on the lights he doesn’t want to wake me. He solved the problem with a handsome barn door. It is eight feet tall, gray, and finished with a high gloss. He skipped yoga class on Thursday so that he could install it as a surprise. I love coming home from class to a house smelling like varnish. A scent of love.

• Hi, Captain Amy.

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