Practice, Schmactrice

This year, I've told myself I'm going to do the better self-care thing, so that means the Thursday afternoon yoga class is on the schedule. Not only can I twist and unkink, but I'll be able to have dinner at Moe's after with a bit less guilt.

Class today was v. small, probably because it's the first week of school, and most of the teachers are mental tapioca. No problem. I'm in seated meditation, listening to the nature sound remix of Pachelbel's Canon in D, thinking to myself "calm, calm."

That lasted about four minutes. Then I arrived at the depressing realization of three insurmountable facts:

1. I am way too short-waisted for some of these poses. There is just not enough room between my neck and waistline for certain kinds of bending and stretching. Ms. Teacher is wrapping herself into an origami crane, and I can't get my forehead within twelve inches of the mat. Not that I lack flexibility, mind you--I'm way flexible--I just don't have enough to bend over. Or get my elbow hooked over my opposite knee for the seated twist.
   
2. Of course, the extra pounds don't help with the bending of any joint, especially around the waist. Bone structure is far too small. Time to get serious about the caloric intake.
3. There is no such thing as a neutral spinal position for shavasana when you have a butt shaped like J-Lo's. Either I have a vicious curve right at the small of my back, or my knees are off the mat and my legs aren't relaxed. Wiggle, wiggle, adjust, adjust, huffy breath of frustration. Not the done thing when you're in final relaxation.

Despite all that, it was good to be here. My shoulders finally descended from eyebrow height. Can't complain about that. But it's clear that Rodney Yee and I have to become pre-breakfast partners again, if I really want to get my forehead acquainted with my mat.

Operation Kerosene Update #4

I have now successfully weeded off the dry sink in my kitchen and done something productive with all those school papers and reports cards and such. The paper flood has been dammed and tidied and filed, and now I can actually get to the cookbooks.

I nearly blew up our shredder tearing through pages and pages of old check stubs, credit cards statements from years ago (shamefully, some with a 19-- year prefix), receipts, automatic payment reminders, mutual fund buy notices, and else. Lots else. Two kitchen-sized bags full of shred. I could start my own packing company with all the junk.

The hand-me-down fairies arrived with bags of clothes for both DS and DD (or Frick and Frack, and they are more familiarly known). Frick has to week through his room again--what 10-year-old boy doesn't?--but Frack has actually caught on with the weedout kick. She gave a nice handful of books to the kids across the street that a few weeks ago she couldn't bear to part with. There's hope for the younger generation, assuming I don't screw them up further.

Now to the books. Stacks and stacks and stacks of them. When DH and I married and he moved into the house I owned at the time, he brought himself, his clothes, a table from his father, golf clubs, and about 15 cartons of books. The problem hasn't lessened since we've merged households and book-buying habits. But now we're in purge mode, so stacks of them are now patiently waiting to be taken to the Friends of the Library sale instead of lying in wait to attack us on nocturnal visits to the loo. This is progress, let me tell you. There may actually be room on our existing shelves for the depleted collection. Yikes.

Deb Dixon, Goddess!

Survived a virtual butt-kicking from the inimitable Deb Dixon, she of GMC fame. Great program today from CFRW. Got the streamlined GMC this morning, which amazingly I have never attended before, and a special workshop on the Big Black Moment this afternoon.

Considering that the writign has been, well, waysided for a bit, this was a good hook to yank me back into the fold. And I figured out why the book was bogging down so badly. No interaction! So now Hero Man will be up underneath her and the farm business while she blithely tries to fix other parts of her life. So much more drama will ensue at the black moment. Merci beaucoup, Deb!