…and god bless mommy and daddy and sparky and
Brenna Francis, my substitute yoga teacher on Sundays because holy man! Sleeping in?? Sleeping in?? Yeah, one day a week of not having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, especially after yesterday’s 8 mile run from hell in the cold and the headwind with the little blobs of…is that ice? falling from a gun metal sky.
A run where, when I got to the turnaround point at the boat launch and stood looking at the creepily turquoise water of Tioga Lake, all I could think about was how Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with rocks and walked into the river and kept walking until she was dead.
I thought of doing that, I really did, but running pants don’t have big enough pockets (design flaw), so I just turned around and fought the cold and my tightening hips and the mind-numbing boredom until I got back to the studio where I climbed the steps like a baby with a load in its diaper and wanted to cry, but didn’t.
So today it was especially wonderful not to have to wake up, but nestle ever more deeply into the soft downy warmness of my bed and the sweetness of my dreams.
And then the day unfurled in a rainbow of utter perfectness when the Sunday NY Times arrived via carrier pigeon and I actually got to curl up with its thousands of sections and eat it piece by piece until it was all gone and I was bloated and burping with intellectual stim.
And then I did a wash, and then I ate some lunch, and then I didn’t even take a shower but just went to yoga, just like everyone else goes to yoga in wrinkly pants and no mascara and I didn’t even have to think and just took my brainful of NY Times-ishness and dumped it onto my mat and let Brenna lead me into the yoga of sloth, each pose held for an eternity until it gave up its goods.
It was the perfect “Sunday of Sloth” practice. Everyone should give themselves a Day of Sloth practice once a week. Build it in. You need it. Especially after the week (day) you’ve had.
Am I right?