P,
In an effort to re-direct some of my postpartum middle excess to the bodies of lithe young twenty somethings, I have joined a new yoga class full of just said type. The studio director, BS, is, shall we say, skilled in the ways women long to be touched. Although it’s clear he prefers certain body types over others, he doesn’t discriminate against us olders, assuming, no doubt, that our pocketbooks may be much deeper than those much younger. I’ve never been a sporty type, and I do so hate to impose my own rigid views upon others, but I think I may have found my bliss, and think you may find yours too.
The obvious question is whether we ask our other halves to join us as they may learn a thing or two about sublimated desire and heightened satisfaction deriving from a less is more approach. I’m afraid, dearest P, they may only discover they too love this man which really only raises more issues than it addresses, doesn’t it? No, I think we emphasize the girly aspects of downward facing dog, and all the attendant benefits they may get from it later, and spend a good hour every day or two sowing our own wild oats, if you know what I mean.
I’m off to lunch with hubby who says he’s managed to leave my new panties at the office and will give them to me today. Can’t possibly be he shopped for them at that little sex shop near DuPont Circle, can it? If so, he’ll need to explain AGAIN why AP needed more than her once weekly counselling session with him and how they just happened to wander in together after an intimate tete a tete at Johnny’s Half Shell. Well, I suppose if she stays it’s worth it, right?
Faithfully,
C.
