This morning’s yoga class was soothing, aside from those moments when my joints reminded me exactly how many decades they’d been in operation. Our savasana period at the end (also called, grimly, the corpse pose) seemed longer than usual. This is the point where we all lie back on our mats like, well, corpses, and relax. After all that stretching and bending, it’s super calming and I sometimes leave in kind of a trance afterwards.
Today, as it turned out, we needed that extra time because
after the room had become absolutely silent while we lay there, some clueless
person began picking up all her stuff, stopping to thoroughly spray and wipe
her mat with anti-bacterial spray, clomp back to where her belongings were, and
then clomp out, banging the door behind her. Sheesh.
I think Wednesday is my new secret time to go to the grocery store. It was practically empty. When I find myself there during suicide hours like a Saturday morning, I shop with gritted teeth and poorly controlled impatience.
This morning as I sorted through the green beans, I got a kick out of hearing “Louie, Louie” playing on the Musak and remembering how wicked and forbidden it had seemed in the 1960s.
(factoid: I just looked it up out of
curiosity – it’s been covered more times than any other pop song besides “Yesterday”
and had been investigated by the FBI regarding possible violation of interstate
transportation of obscene material.)
In the local nature news, My Guy and I are wondering if we
have a turkey nursery in the woods out back. Two turkeys seem to have claimed a
particular spot, scratching in the leaves, and hunkering down with no apparent interest
in leaving.
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