She's no Sandra & Leo

I went to my first yoga class here last night. I didn't feel like it in the least, being somewhat shattered from unpacking boxes, but forced myself to go along. First problem? Locating the hall, which was tucked down a back path at the side of a church -- thank goodness it was still light. Second problem? I walked into what looked like the class, only to be told it was too early and that I should leave. Okay then. Ten minutes later, the class exited and one woman told me they'd found it quite amusing that I hadn't realized it was a pregnancy yoga -- given how heavily pregnant they all were. At that point, I recognized that I was so tired I wouldn't have noticed if I were suddenly 6 months pregnant. Oh well, it's always good to embarass yourself at least once a day.

The class itself was fine. I'm trying to be very tolerant and not all "Well, Sandra and Leo wouldn't have taught it like that" and very dismissive -- and that's not like me at all. It's different, change is good, it was both dynamic and relaxing (if overly chatty), and I'll get on just fine.

And if not, I'll sign up at the Pilates studio and learn that instead.

Feet firmly on the ground

Check out this article on Expatica: I am quoted! I get to see PJ's musings appear frequently in major publications, but this is my first press appearance since a photo of me playing the violin appeared in the Eastern Daily Press about 28 years ago. Go me! And go Sandra and Leo!!

Meditation rage

There's always one. She -- it's always a she -- comes into class at the very last minute sets out an array of items: a bottle of water, a towel, a packet of tissues, various sweaters. She is clearly going to be trouble, preferring to achieve nirvana through accessorizing than through calm thoughts. And she was. Throughout today's 21/2 hour meditation class, she loudly swigged water, coughed, blew her nose, and generally fidgeted. Instead of achieving one-ness with the space around me, I found my fingers clenching against my thighs, my mind racing with murderous thoughts -- and what I'd blog about once I got home.

The cycle ride home didn't help my mood. This is what happens when you don't take a hat or waterproof trousers with you on every journey.



I got soaked. Which meant I couldn't face heading out again today to spend several hours with screaming rugrats -- sorry, Bill and Beth! I'll make up for it over the holidays; promise.