P,
Some days (perhaps most) are better spent in bed. Arrived at my yoga class this early am bundled against the cold (no, it’s not Minnesota but for thin skinned east coast types it’s officially winter now) repeating zen like thoughts–you know–I will be kind to my husband and children today or at least inflict no permanent psychological harm. My meditative state was rudely interrupted by a young thug who stated succinctly, "There’s my sighing partner. It’s just not the same when you’re not here." Well, I must confess it was rather like being caught in the WC with your pants ’round your ankles by someone with whom you are, shall we say, not intimate–unless, of course, you’re my husband who seems to view a display of bodily functions as a direct measure of his high testosterone level–where do we mothers go wrong in training our boys? But I digress. Any response to the young tough seemed inadequate as I felt as though my tortured yoga body and soul had just been exposed to the entire class (mostly young nubile women who hadn’t yet gone to bed for the night). I stammered, "I just can’t help it." Instantly sprang to my mind it’s kind of like apologizing for the least bit of pleasure you get from sex. Perhaps you’re loud but it’s clearly involuntary. How closely linked are my pleasure and pain–in so very many ways.
Faithfully,
C.
