Skip to main content

Primping For Yoga

I recently started taking a yoga class again -- hello body. Remember me?
My reluctance in the past was tied to having to travel anywhere -- time I felt cut severely into my already compressed work day. But then my neighbor introduced me to a studio down the street - an 8 minute walk each way. I can handle that.

But here's the main time problem -- the 30 minutes before class I spend primping. No, I am not trying to spruce up for the teacher (a woman) nor the few people "ommm"-ing with me. What happens is more like this:

1. Find yoga pants. Put them on.
2. Become aware that I haven't shaved legs since last week's class.
3. Shave.
4. Nick myself.
5. Try to staunch bleeding without leaving little red bumps on legs.
6. Fail.
7. Notice red nail polish chipped on toes.
8. Remove polish.
9. See stains on toes left.
10. Try to re-polish quickly.
11. Fail.
12. Sigh and try to ignore.
13. Spot hideous callous on heels.
14. Try, unsuccessfully, to scrub said callouses in 30 seconds away.
15. Fail.
16. Slather everything with Vaseline and run for door.

Is it me, or does everything in life prompt the creation of another to-do list?

Comments

Anonymous said…
Simple answer MM - YES!
We need our lists or we would be in limbo.

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...