I know I shouldn’t say “dudes,” but I’m now a perfect human being, so I can get away with anything.
Here’s the story:
I NOW DO YOGA.
By which I mean, I have done yoga 2 days in a row (completely coincidentally, those days were January 1 and 2), for 15 minutes a day.
As you might have guessed, I am on my annual vacances.
Every year I tell myself I’m going to do yoga. Everyone in my life—my mother, everyone at work, every single person in my town—does yoga.
Mayhaps this has something to do with why I can’t be bothered. I’ve trained myself to believe that whatever the masses are doing has to be stupid. But, skirting the yoga world as I have been for the past 10 years or so, I’ve come to the secret realization that it’s the exercise for me. The gentle kind, the solo kind, the non-spiritual kind. I’m not one to exercise among others, except Jacob, and I did have to punch him in the arm when he started laughing uncontrollably yesterday after I fell over attempting some sort of sideways stretch thing that no mortal should be able to do.
But today I spread two towels on our postage-stamp living room floor and made him yogize with me, and when he fell over I laughed in the same way. Then he fondled my ass while we were doing a pose that brought my ass in contact with his hand. The perils of yoga with your boyfriend.
Perhaps I should mention that thus far the yoga routine consists of doing yoga to this aforementioned video while drinking hibiscus-infused champagne-sorrel concoctions I’ve made. Mostly, though, in addition to falling over on each other, it consists of yelling “fuck you, dude!” and laughing in awe that anyone could ever get their heels to touch the ground while in downward dog. Many (most!) of my friends can do this, this magical heel-touch thing, but I’ve been privately doing downward dogs for years (see, I do know a thing about yoga) once in a while, and I guarantee you, my heels are nowhere near ground, and never will be. WTF. Fuckin’ heels.
There is absolutely no purpose to this blog post except to publicly cement my desire to do yoga so that, tomorrow, or March, or so, I can write some mopey post all about how I’m awful for not doing yoga and you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Also, speaking of those hibiscus champagne drinks, they are really the most wonderful thing. I got the hibiscus thingies (sepals? hips? I dunno. Not petals, not flowers, I know that.) at the farmer’s market, thinking they were my beloved surinam cherries. Some chefs standing next to me (who, in a typical cheffy-Lagusta-of-2002-2010 move, promptly bought everything the wrinkled farmer was selling out from under whoever else was patiently standing in line, and she just smiled, obviously used to this happening every week) told me they weren’t surinams, but were hibiscus and I could “make a drink with them.” I instantly realized I could make sorrel with them, and bought all I could, spending about $1. The next day I went to the beach and, in one of those instances of vacation synchronicity that are so lovely, came across a recipe for sorrel in the Saveur I was leafing through. So now we’re drinking champagne-spiked sorrel, and it’s damn good, and you should go get yourself some hibiscus.
Yay for yoga. All the cool kids do yoga! Fuckin’ mind-body connection, BRING IT ON.