I think I witnessed quail day care the other day. Two adult quail herding 15 little fluffs of baby quail across the street, enjoying a slightly stressful outing while the chicks’ parents were out doing their damnedest to peck out a living. It’s nice to know that animal kingdom has systems in place where parents can go out and provide for their young.
When I walk Gus it’s around the loop of the derelict golf course behind our house. Sophie doesn’t get to come because she is diva. When I’m putting on Gus’ harness she comes and stands by the front door too, ready to join us. But if I get out her harness she books it upstairs. She wants to go on a walk but on her terms, okay? When we walk we pass smatterings of other suburbians with their dogs or on bikes or running and we say hi and smile and continue on. (Unless they have a dog in which case Gus will straight up threaten suicide if he doesn’t get to smell its butt.)
At one point last evening coming down the path toward me was a middle-aged lady and her teenaged daughter. I locked Gus’ leash and pulled him close—I’m a polite dog owner, see—and then prepared to exchange a greeting as we passed. But they never looked at me. They kept walking toward me, looking beyond, like we weren’t 12 inches away from each other. So I said good evening and the woman scowled at me and mumbled it back as she walked on. So under my breath I whispered, “Bitch.” And I’m pretty sure she heard me. So who’s the bitch now, Megan, you genius?
Jim is in Alaska getting seasick with some clients for a few days, so I came home from our walk, turned on So You Think You Can Dance, and sat on our bathroom floor to clean out the cupboard and drawers. Cleaning Out is my happy place. I did our closet last weekend and it was time to tackle the toiletries.
A few months ago I cleaned out cupboards in the garage and when I opened the one on the far right I paused in shock. I found Jim’s crazy. He is a lightbulb hoarder. It’s our house that will still be glowing long after the Four Horsemen have come and gone. Bulb after bulb after bulb will save us. But you would experience the same stop and balk if you opened the third drawer down in our bathroom.
That’s where I keep all my Sephora samples. That’s where I keep my crazy.
95% of them I’ll never use. But. What. If. I. Will!? I have to keep them all. I have to keep them organized by type. And I have to add to them frequently enough that I’ll be a Sephora VIB Rouge just as long as Jim will keep our house well lit. I am currently satisfied with my skincare regime—aesthetician Victoria and I are really doing all we can with what we’ve got (dry skin that ages early and a client who thinks water tastes gross and so drinks Diet Dr. Pepper instead thus making her dry skin look even duller)—but what if I must to make a change? How will I know what to buy? My samples!
As I write that—samples—it makes me think of my old life. It revolved around samples. For years it was samples of insulin. But there were heart meds in there. Bone stuff. ADD meds. And plenty more. I wrote them all down once, the drugs I sold; in my ten years as a pharmaceutical sales representative I had responsibility for 18 different products spanning at least 10 disease states. And I’m sure I missed some. But have I thought about any of that since I quit a little over a year ago? Nope. I'm still surprised how quickly I un-repped myself. I trashed the buttoned-up wardrobe and forgot basically everything I learned over that decade of drugs. I can’t remember local doctors’ names, details of the drugs I knew inside and out, diseases I studied, all the parts and parcels of pharma. It’s a shining example of how caring about something helps it stick in your mind, and I don’t care about the drug rep world anymore. It was a major part of my identity and, unceremoniously, I offed it.
For all of those ten years and before I have cared about yoga. It’s been 12 years since I started my practice and it’s still with me, evolving on its own and sustaining me. Two classes today and a teacher training this weekend.
For the first evening of this training the pre-class packet said to wear not yoga clothes but street clothes instead. How do you people not know that these leggings and strappy sports bras are our street clothes. Have you ever noticed that when not in their Lululemon whatnot yoga teachers are about the worst dressers on the planet? Sure, there are exceptions but very few. When it’s time to ditch stretchy and functional for looking like a normal person most of us are all thumbs and gauche. And with that I will now go to my closet, change from of my leggings and strappy sports bra, and see what terrible ensemble I can come up with.