I think it’s perfectly dreadful when people talk about their sports and athletic hobbies. There is nothing duller than listening to people talk about their running times or their golf handicaps or their batting averages. I mean I simply cannot find it in myself to care.

So let me tell you about my yoga classes this week!

I am a beaten woman. I mean I am exhausted. I am aching in muscles that I had only ever seen in diagrams. I mean, I’ve seen pictures of the psoas muscle before, but I’d always assumed it was a sort of artistic rendition thingy, not an actual working piece of flesh.

Monday night was the first class of Introduction to Flow. Flow yoga is just what it sounds like: you flow gracefully from one pose to the next. Or it’s supposed to be graceful, at any rate. I had naively suspected that it might be easier than my regular Iyengar yoga, in which you hold each pose for a really long time. Even if it doesn’t hurt at first, it will by the time a few minutes have passed.

So, okay, with this flow stuff, we didn’t hold the poses for any significant duration, but here’s the catch: We did them repeatedly, in rapid succession, for an hour. It turned into a high-energy aerobic type thing.

By the time Monday night’s class was finished, I was dripping sweat and aching all over.

Thursday night’s Iyengar class would be a relief after that flow stuff, I figured. But when I limped into class this evening (still tender from Monday’s tortures, mind you), it turned out that Yoga Instructor Jennifer had prepared an exceptionally vicious class for us. Now, if you associate words such as “calming” and “restorative” with yoga, rather than “vicious” and “grueling,” that’s probably because you’ve never tried to balance on your head for three minutes.

By the time this evening’s class was finished, I was dripping sweat and aching all over.

In very short order I will be sinking into a hot bath, and then I will be collapsing into bed. First, though, I wanted to get this post out of the way, because I won’t be writing here again for a while. (Well—maybe there will be one little entry next week. I’ve already got a germ of an idea for my mid-vacation blog post, and it’s gonna be a doozie.) Mainly, though, I’ll be focusing on the thingymadoo. Once I get off work tomorrow, I will be sequestered in my apartment for nine days. It will be a week of reckoning, the chance to see if I really will be able to finish the you-know-what on time. Deadline the first is June 2. (There is another deadline, in August, for the final draft, but that will just be a matter of revisions. It is this first draft deadline that’s the killer.)

Of late I have been fantasizing about June the second. What a… what a glorious sound it has. June second. June the second. The second of June. It is more beautiful than December 25th, or my birthday, or Talk Like a Pirate Day. I am appalled that, in prior years, I have neglected this all-important date as being a day much like any other.

What, oh what, shall I do with myself, come June second?

For starters, I’ll take a nice long nap. I’m thinking three or so consecutive days asleep might do the trick.

Then probably my next order of business will be to restore my apartment to habitable conditions. With any luck I will be so very euphoric about having turned in the ook-bay that I won’t notice my usual displeasure at running the vacuum.

Then… oh, what then? I could get stinking drunk. That sounds like a nice idea. But probably I’ll want to put that off till a weekend. Not sure I could be my usual charming self toward the library patrons if I’m nursing a hangover.

 
Then I might do something really indulgent. This is a very big step for me, but I might-- I hope you're sitting down, because this is really very remarkable-- I might watch a movie.

If your jaw is not dropping, it should be. I do not watch movies. I just don't. But my need for escapism will be so very great that I might just do it, provided I can figure out how to hook up my PS2 properly, which is no sure thing.

Hey! My PS2! I could play video games! Maybe kill a few zombies or save a few worlds, something like that!

And the books! I’ll be able to read for pleasure again! I’ll be looking for something with absolutely no redeeming value. (Any suggestions?) I do not want, and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough, I do not want to read something that broadens my horizons. I do not want to learn about people’s lives in other cultures. I do not want contemplative thought-pieces on politics or society or the economy. I do not want my beloved Dostoevsky, I do not want reflective philosophical musings, and for the love of everything holy I do not want Women’s Nonfiction.

I will be wanting fiction—fluffy, escapist, mind-numbing fiction. I will want action and stock characters and a fast pace and simple, easily-processed sentences that follow your basic subject-verb-object structure, nothing too fancy, thanks anyway.

Now because I do have some shred of dignity deep within my soul I forbid any of you to suggest James Patterson to me. I realize that, essentially, I have just described the typical James Patterson book, but even in the depths of my anticipated drunken stupor, I will not condescend to that level. I have my pride.

Other than that, I’m wide open. Ideas, anyone?

Going to go crawl toward my bath now. I’d walk, but I’m not sure I have it in me.