As I promised the Amity High School crew, I’m posting some pictures of their 10-year reunion held this past Saturday night. I had a great time, as always, with J’s high school friends, who are…how to put it? Completely awesome.

When we got there they pointed out this guy, Tonto, and told me to take pictures of him. I don’t know why, exactly. I’m also not sure they realized how seriously I’d take the assignment.

I hope he doesn’t read this blog.

You can see the rest here.

Thanksgiving has come and gone. After braving the legendary traffic along 95 yesterday, and a quick night’s rest at my parents’, we are home, and ready (or, if not “ready,” willing, at least) to get back to work and get on with the holidays.

During our travels, Justin’s mom, and mine, too, both equally wonderful in their gift-giving enthusiasm, asked us what we wanted for Christmas, and it’s funny, most years the same things apply. Clothes. Jewelry. Books. Music. I never get tired of the standards.

Lately though, with the career change and all - you know, from my having a job, to, ah, sort of not having one, insuring myself and picking up only sporadic paychecks - J and I have been pretty good about not spending too much money. We’re young and somewhat frugal (food, I’d say, is the biggest tempation we give in to - both restaurants and take-out) and the situation has changed the way I think and what I buy. Shopping sprees are rare. I’ve become better at not splurging on unnecessary items, like expensive shampoo. I even bought some ramen noodles at the grocery store recently, six for $1, and then quickly remembered that the value isn’t really worth it, not because of the gallons of MSG and lack of nutrional value, but because if within easy reach, I will revert back to college ways eat them constantly, especially late at night, a second dinner. And that sort of defeats the whole money-saving idea. I want to be financially savvy. Not fat.

So when asked what I wanted for Christmas, a gagillion things sprung to mind. An MRI. Gossip magazines. $2-plus soap and other bathroom accessories. A gift certificate to the dentist. Kitty litter.

While realizing that J and I are very lucky people (evident, for instance, in the fact that anyone wants to buy us anything at all, when we are notoriously bad at getting people presents anywhere close to the date of the upcoming holiday, wedding or anniversary) I imagine we will look back fondly on this time in our lives. I like that we still have a lot of things to look forward to, however small, like having more money and living somewhere big enough that we can display all the beautiful china we got for our wedding, instead of keeping it stashed under the bed, where it is right now. And please don’t feel bad if that’s what you got us, because although your present is, indeed, under the bed, yet to see the light of day, I think of it often, and when we live in a house where we have the room to not only display the stuff, but also have, like, some sort of dining room table - or any table for that matter - you are so coming over for dinner.

For the past few days I’ve been hanging out in the cozy McDonough house here in Connecticut, eating a lot of turkey (and eating a lot in general), watching movies and hanging out with family, so I haven’t written much since I figured you all were doing the same thing. After all, what good are the holidays without a brief, at least, break from the old computer?

Of course, there will be stories after we return home, especially since J’s 10 year high school reunion is tonight. I’m rather looking forward to this event, because, unlike my own, I won’t have to deal with catching up with people I used to know, and trying to make my freelancing “career” sound all that amazing. I’ll just be a casual observer. A casual, cocktail-drinking observer.

Then, tomorrow, we’ll attempt a drive back to North Carolina - we’ll see how that goes - and upon returning to the cinderblock cottage will commence our own version of the glorious holiday season, including, maybe, a Christmas tree, certainly a few parties, and planning a little New Years event of our own.

Despite the last minute shopping and inevitable weight gain and the chill in air, I love this time of year. All the insanity and arguments and late nights that usher in a bright new day in the form of January 1, when we are maybe a little hungover and not at our best but it doesn’t matter because it’s been such a busy month and finally, it’s the first day of a new year, and it’s going to be so great - so very great.

Over the past few weeks, when motivated, I’ve been cleaning up some of the things I’ve written, including some posts from this blog, and submitting them for publication.

For instance, I’ve submitted an edited version of this piece to a couple magazines.

So far I’ve only received rejections, but not to fret, I forge onward. Sometimes I forward on the rejections to my parents, so they can share in my rage. After doing so last week, I received the below mock news article from my father, reminding me that a) he should have his own blog and b) not to get too sappy or anything, but fame…fortune…it doesn’t really matter because I’ve already got the best fan base I could ask for.

Sat, Nov 18, 2006
From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough
Subject: Article on rejections is rejected

A witty and fun filled article on being rejected by rising star Cara McDonough was rejected today by The Writer magazine.

“It was of course a disappointment” McDonough said, “But these things happen as you make your way to the top.”

McDonough went on to quote her writing philosophy: “Fuck the editors. Full steam ahead.”

Historians of journalism note the similarity to McDonough’s comment in 2005 when asked to postpone her wedding because of drenching rain and the Annapolis boat show.

“Fuck the boat show,” she said. “I’m getting married.”

I joined the local YMCA, and you’ll be happy to know that there are many, many naked women in the locker room. Everywhere. It’s an epidemic. Talking to their friends, drying their hair, toweling off after a swim, naked. Nude. Bold, cheerful women.

It’s funny how one thing leads to another. How, my hip pain, associated with a running injury I’m sure, has occupied so much of my time lately, invaded so many of my thoughts. After asking all my favorite “experts” (J, over and over again, my little brother, my high school
friends, a random guy in the bar) I decided to go to a doctor. I ended up, after a few references, at the Duke Sports Clinic, The Nicest Medical Facility On Planet Earth.

I realized, upon arriving, how much money had been invested in the place, by so many famous athletes, no doubt, and after getting over my momentary annoyance, thinking of the inequity…the many places in this country the money for the nice chairs, the millions of nurses, the huge pool and other gorgeous facilities…could have been used, I settled in and enjoyed the scenery. I felt a little weird. I mean, here I was, a casual runner with some semi-minor, mysterious hip pain, amongst these very toned people with awesome gear. These athletes, doing their physical therapy with their spandex and their ice packs, they were a tier above. This was their life. Whereas I’m pretty sure I hurt myself because - after coming back from a month of many Budweisers and nachos at midnight, my sole exercise walking to the pool down the road and trying not to fall down while navigating my way around the rocky shore this summer - I started running again. In my hilly neighborhood in my very old running shoes. A lot. To burn off the Budweisers.

Last week I saw a doctor who, although I’m sure he’s great at what he does, didn’t seem that interested in what I had to say. He didn’t want to chat for hours, like I like to do when in the presence of a true professional. He asked me a few questions, moved my leg around, sent me to get an x-ray and then, not having pinpointed the problem, started talking about how the “MRI would give him a better idea of the problem.” MRI? I thought I was going to be given stretches and maybe a heating pad. Not an intense body scan.

Before I could even ask why I needed an MRI, the doctor was out the door. Up front, they scheduled the procedure, and I was sent home without any stretches or a heating pad or any instruction at all, except that I shouldn’t run for a while, but could ride a stationary bike or use the elliptical machine.

Because not running was completely common sense (it very clearly made my hip and leg hurt) I followed the doctor’s orders. And that’s why I joined the Y, choosing it over other gyms because it is so close I can walk there, and because it’s nice inside - both the people and the building.

Over the next few days I researched my options, using the old experts - my friends, and strangers, too - curious why I needed an MRI. Didn’t it seem a huge measure for such a small problem? My team of researchers agreed. And then the kicker, I found out that with my current insurance an MRI wouldn’t be covered and would cost $2,000 (TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS). Since I hadn’t been sold on the idea anyway - a seemingly unnecessary procedure dictated by an impatient doctor - I cancelled it, certain there are other ways to fix the problem so that I can run again.

Even so, the incident frustrated me. The insurance, the disappointing health care, the many phone calls. Why was it so hard? I knew I couldn’t complain too much. I’m a very fortunate person, and this certainly wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Far from it. But it was enough to drum up a fairly bad mood.

Add to that a few rejection letters - I’ve been sending out pieces to various magazines, trying to, you know, get published. And then I got a speeding ticket.

I was driving home after volunteering (I’ve been doing some work at a homeless shelter, which, believe me, makes the insurance woes and rejection letters seem so incredibly small), and then having lunch with my friend Carissa yesterday, when I saw a cop sitting in the median as I pulled over the hill on the main stretch of road before you turn off on our little street. As I passed him (and hit the brakes) he put on his blinker and pulled out behind me so fast you might have thought I had a dead body hanging out of my trunk. And a gun in my hand. And that I was laughing maniacally behind the wheel, instead of what I was actually doing, which was listening to NPR, and yes, hurrying home, because I had to pee.

The factors at play in this scenario (I was in a bad mood, coming straight off the highway, and it’s a big wide, road - really it is) aren’t that important I realize, in light of the fact that I was speeding, which the cop pointed out to me several times. “Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked me when he approached the window. When I answered that I didn’t, which was sort of a lie, because I had a feeling it was near 50, he asked, again, “You have no idea?”

While I in no way, and I mean it, resent cops (in fact I love them, in the same way I love doctors - they are both keepers of the peace, whether working on the body or on the streets) this method of questioning always makes me feel a little less loving. He knew how fast I was going. There’s no way he didn’t, because I’m pretty sure he had a radar gun in there. So his asking me, it was just a game.

Because I was going 55 mph in a 35 mph (whatever you want to say to that, please remember the factors involved) I have a court date in January, where I’m thinking they’ll announce a rather large fine and maybe tell me my license is suspended for a month. Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in.

I got home and only allowed myself to wallow for a short time before picking myself up and driving over to the newspaper office where I’m now freelancing (thus, certainly not doing nothing with my time lately, and while I’m figuring out my life, churning out a lot of clips I can use to prove to the people who keep sending me rejection letters that, hey, I do get published from time to time - LOOK). I was assigned a story on a new county program and set up an interview with the woman in charge. We met at one of my new favorite coffee places downtown and after a very interesting interview, proceeded to have a very interesting conversation about life in general, particularly (since the thrust of the new program is educating the public about their civil rights) how we, as individuals, can do the best good in our individual lives. Making the right decisions. Treating people with respect.

She and I shared a pot of Earl Grey tea and I left feeling much better.

When I got home I sent J a text message, asking if he’d like to meet for a drink after work. I knew that once he got home, and we were thinking about what to make for dinner, and taking care of the dogs, and doing the dishes, my desire to tell him all about my day would slip away, that I’d get distracted, and I wanted to fill him in on everything that had happened.

An hour later I picked him up and we headed out to a spot we like a lot, and over a beer (for him) and a glass of wine (for me) I told him all about what I’d done that day - how I’d been annoyed, but able to put life in perspective, how I’d had fun with my old friend, met someone new, how I’d been pulled over (and really, what can you say about that?) and he told me what he’d been up to.

On our way out, I saw the girl who’d been working for the paper I’m working for now. We’d gotten to know each other in meetings and, after I got back from Maine, and she left for a new job, she gave me her boss’s card, saying he’d probably welcome any freelance work. And he did. It was great to see her so we talked for a while.

When I get the time to take it all in, while having a drink with my husband for instance, I realize that my decision to spend the summer hanging out with friends and not exercising that much, and consequentially, hurting myself somehow, led to this, to days like yesterday, a very good and, at times, not as good day, but a full and productive day. It’s something I think about when I ride my little stationary bike at the Y, a boring endeavor at best, but it gives me time to think, a few moments of peace, before I go back to the locker room to retrieve my things and get on with my day, and, inevitably, run into all the naked women, maybe just after their water aerobics class, getting ready for their days, too.

The fact that I had carefully laid out a plan for myself Monday - work out, get some coffee and do a little writing, then do a few errands such as buying some appropriate clothes for an office environment - didn’t really save me from the fate I eventually succumbed to, a.k.a. I went shopping, and not just for the necessities mentioned above, but for, like, some new makeup and these really cute black heels that were on sale at Nordstrom, and before you go saying I shouldn’t have even gone into Nordstrom, not having a real job and all, let me just mention that upon arriving I realized that it was the MID YEAR SALE at Nordstrom, and I know you guys will understand and forgive me.

Normally, when I have things I need to shop for (and not too much to spend) the task becomes tiresome, boring. I might need brown boots, for instance, or a black cardigan (and watch it, people, probably men, who I’m sure are muttering things like, “you don’t ever NEED brown boots,” believe me, sometimes you do) and because I feel I need the item, and am not simply looking around at all the fashionable, wonderful things I don’t need, not at all, shopping becomes a chore. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens from time to time.

This, luckily, was not one of those times. This was one of those other times, when, in addition to efficiently finding the things you need, at a reasonable price, you also find other things you need at a reasonable price, and - the best part of all - you discover it is Clinique Bonus time, and if you spend enough money at the Clinique counter, they’ll give you an adorable little travel bag full of makeup samples. Will you use them? Who knows. But you will certainly go home and lay take them out and love them dearly and try them on and celebrate the joy and esctasy that is free makeup, especially free Clinique makeup, which is especially nice.

The thing was, that after having amassed several bags full of things I maybe didn’t need, per se, but that I had really, really enjoyed purchasing, I started to feel guilty. I don’t think anyone should ever feel guilty for shopping from time to time. There isn’t much better therapy than just going out and doing some nice things for yourself and not feeling bad about it. You’re worth it, you know? But I started feeling guilty anyway, because despite the fact that I had, indeed, gotten some work done earlier in the day, I mean, it was Monday. And not even Monday night, but Monday, early afternoon, when most people were getting into their workweek and making a living and such, and it is at these times that I start thinking about how I left my job to go on vacation (I’m not romanticizing it anymore: I left my job to go on vacation) and that I should be home, and if not working, at least doing something sort of unpleasant, like creating Excel spreadsheets documenting our future financial plans.

Since I was already at the mall and not exactly ready to go home, I did what I could, and sauntered down near the Macy’s, and tried my best to look available. See, there are these market research people who stand down at that end of the mall with clipboards and try and talk people into doing surveys. I’m sure people who live down here and go to the mall have seen them from time to time, maybe even taken them up on their seemingly-shady offers. I always do. First, they ask if you have a few moments to be part of a survey, get some initial information, and then take you around the corner to this office with little cubicles and various products, mostly food. Once there, you realize the alleged “few moments” is a total crock and this is going to take a while because they are going to ask you about 12 million questions about granola bars. Or fried onions. Or cookies (but honestly, who doesn’t want to be asked 12 million questions about cookies? Cookies deserve that attention.)

If you’re curious why I always participate, why, on a totally free day dedicated to shopping I’d willingly spend half an hour in a kind of dirty little office rating salty snacks on a scale of 1-10, well, there are a couple reasons. Basically, I’m a sucker for surveys. Anyone can come up to me, at any time, whether I’m in a hurry or not, and I’ll participate. Part of it is that I like to help out. No, really. I do. Whether it’s women’s health or juice boxes, I like being part of the grand movement. I like knowing I’ve made a contribution that could change something - great or small.

Secondly, and more selfishly, these surveys usually result in some sort of humorous, or at least interesting, interaction with my fellow human beings. And that’s one of my favorite things. I like to spend my time talking to strangers and asking them a lot of questions about what they’re up to. Sure, you might find this strange, but if someone said I could have a job participating in a lot of surveys and then writing about the experience, I’d probably say, “Alright, I’m in.”

But the big pull with these mall surveys is that they pay you. I’ve been paid as little as $5 and as much as $17. Cash. Sometimes you get to take food samples home with you, too. So needless to say when I was feeling bad about having spent all that money on myself, I went down there looking like I had all the time in the world, glancing from store to store as if to say, “Gee, so much stuff. I don’t know where to start! I wish some kind soul would ask me to come sit in their office for a while and talk about where I normally do most of my shopping and my household income.” My natural inclination towards looking like this - friendly, open, innocent - is why, I think, I got invited to join a well-known Boston-based cult in college. I said no, thanks, after talking to this really nice woman for, like, 20 minutes and then suddenly realizing, with a gasp, that this was exactly what our resident advisors had warned us about.

The more aggressive survey-takers try for everybody, but from time to time you see one of them standing around, looking coy and innocent, and you just know they’re not really working for their commission. Those are the ones you have to cater to. This interaction - between the interviewer and interviewee - is one I’ve carefully studied in my work as a reporter as well, to the point where I can scan a room and figure out, in mere seconds, who I’m going to go up and talk to. You don’t want to waste your time on people who don’t want to talk, especially if their name is going to be in print, or who, on the other hand, are going to waste a good deal of your precious time going off about the current political administration and then say they don’t want you to quote them, because they don’t trust the media.

J, apparently, is pretty good about looking like he’s got the time and won’t say no as well. I know, because one night he came home with an ultra shiny fingernail, and explained to me that the people at the “All Things Natural” nail care booth in the mall had accosted him and he’d allowed them to buff his his index finger, massage his cuticle with vanilla-scented lotion.

There were a a bunch of people from the market research group out recruiting Monday and getting in for an interview was a cinch. I made a little money, which was good, and helped get rid of the guilty feeling. Was it more than I spent? Definitely not. But it was a good reward for the hard work I’d done. Really hard work. In fact, after answering like, the 50th question (”How would you rate the nut clusters among other nut products? Extremely different, very different, somewhat different, not very different or not different at all?”) I started thinking about how I’d like to get a manicure, and got distracted. It was difficult to concentrate, but I did, for the good of my shopping habit and for the good of humanity.

J and I, I’d estimate, watch an average amount of television. While we aren’t into any particular shows (because, I don’t know, maybe neither of us has the attention span for that) we do like to turn the TV on and just gawk at all the possibilities from time to time. Celebrity news, old movies, dramas…despite not having any particular current favorites, we can and will sit down and watch an episode of “Law and Order SVU” at any time, day or night. Whenever it is on, and luckily, it seems to be on an awful lot.

There are a couple of shows that I like because they never fail to make me incredibly happy. I’m talking majorly happy, happy-that-I-live-on-this-incredible-planet happy.

“The Girls Next Door” on E! is one of these. If you haven’t seen this show, it chronicles the lives of Holly, Bridget and Kendra, three of Hugh Hefner’s live-in girlfriends at the Playboy Mansion. They do things like celebrate one another’s birthdays, travel to Europe and skinny dip, all while proclaiming their love of Hef, the man who made them what they are today.

And, I know, you could say something along the lines of, “That show is trash,” but hear me out. First of all, I realize it isn’t the most moral show or whatever, and that some feminists might say Hugh’s need to be constantly surrounded by attractive, young girls, never practicing any form of monogamy is no good for society, blah blah blah, but if you really watch, the show is not only clever (often poking fun at the girls’ rather ignorant/obvious/naive banter directed at the camera) but sort of heartwarming. On a rerun I caught the other day, Holly gave Hef an anniversary card (they were celebrating five years of, I don’t know what you’d call it - being together “sort of”?) and she started crying right there at the dinner table. Because she loves him so much. And she didn’t care that he has other girls in the house, girls he regularly goes to bed with and all. Holly was just happy that she has such a great life with the man she loves. So if Holly can find that kind of happiness in the world, with pajama-wearing, 110-year-old Hugh Hefner, I’m pretty sure this world is a great place. It’s a simple equation.

When I was in college my friend Slavomir Zapata and I took yoga together - both beginner and intermediate yoga - but to tell the truth all that came of these classes were some really good talks, funny stories and perhaps we each became a little bit more flexible.

Slavomir was from Maine so, needless to say, we became fast friends because I am obsessed with that place. He’d talk about L.L. Bean all the time, and I’d listen attentively, because as I’d been taught by my father since I was just a little girl, L.L. Bean is the best place in the world.

Slav and I had a lot of fun adventures together, like joining the BU Chorale Society, and there was also this night we were kind of, maybe, inebriated, walking home from our favorite Thursday night bar, Beckett’s, and we took all these potted plants that were on campus out of their pots and threw them on people’s porches, but, for the present, I’m not gonna get in to recounting college tales that have anything to do with liquor and the results of liquor.

The point is we usually did things for fun, so although I don’t remember the exact moment he and I decided to sign up for yoga classes, I’m pretty sure we weren’t all, “You know what would be GREAT? Getting in touch with our bodies.” I’m thinking it went more like, “You know what would be fucking hysterical? Taking yoga.”

The classes were held in the community room of a really nice residence hall up on West Campus. Since Slav and I lived, in fact, not even on BU’s campus, but in some temporary housing they’d leased at another, small, Catholic girl’s college, southeast of the University, we usually had a nice long walk ahead of us, and this is when we’d talk about anything and everything on our minds, and despite the hilarity that ensued upon yoga class commencing, I always remembered these walks - and talks - as a very nice time in my college career.

Classes were taught by a very ridiculous woman with dark, curly hair, who’d wear, like, a leotard and a tablecloth tied around her waist. Now that I’ve experienced more of the world, I realize that this woman, our teacher, wasn’t totally ridiculous, but was just kind of new-age and really, really into being in tune with the Earth. Lots of yoga people are, I’ve found, and now that I am older, and able to keep myself composed in humorous situations (sometimes) I like being around people like this. They make me feel relaxed. And this is exactly what you want in a yoga class.

And to be fair, relaxation is (sort of) what we got. After class I’d feel remarkably reenergized and calm, all at the same time and I knew that the hour of moving around slowly on the floor, getting into positions named after various animals and trying to do headstands and whatnot had, indeed, been good for me. Of course, things didn’t always go as planned. On one occasion I was reaching deep into my backpack to get out the soft, unrestrictive clothes I’d packed for class, and upon finally yanking them out of the bag, also unlodged a wrapped tampon I was carrying in the backpack and, unfortunately, didn’t have the sense to place in a zippered pocket. It went flying across the room and landed squarely in front of the entire class, on the floor.

At other times, things got too relaxed. At the end of every class, our good-natured teacher would guide us through what she called “deep relaxation.” We lie on the floor, eyes closed, while she had us tense, and then release every muscle in our body. When we finished, she’d sing us a little song, the “mani mantra,” and we were expected to lie there, still, not even laughing or anything, while all our worries dissolved.

After Slav and I learned to get a grip during this part of class, we were able to participate without losing it. In fact, Slav got so into it that he’d often fall asleep. This was fine, and I doubt he was the only one who succumbed to this fate. After all, we were college students, and certainly not getting enough rest. The thing was however, that Slav wouldn’t always wake up at the end of class, so I’d have to quietly nudge him, trying not to make a spectacle. Even worse, he’d snore - and loud - DURING the mani mantra. When this happened I’d reach over from my mat to his and tap him lightly on the arm. This never worked so I’d tap a little harder, causing him to bolt upright and sometimes ask what was going on. This wasn’t exactly what one was supposed to do during deep relaxation, but proved to be good fodder for later that night when we were regaling our friends with stories from that day’s class. We’d show them the new positions we learned too, such as the “Flying Eagle,” and “Swaying Tree.”

You would think a person who treated such an ancient, well-loved physical art form with such disrespect wouldn’t really be interested in taking it up again, but that’s not the case. My gym membership recently ended, coinciding with a slight hip injury due to running, and the yoga studio right near our house started looking more and more attractive. I liked the idea of doing something nice for my body, especially since I’d gotten hurt running, and needed to take a little break. Plus, I have fond memories of that very-relaxed feeling after my college yoga classes, even if other memories supercede those. I wanted that feeling again.

So a couple weeks ago I decided to stop in the main office just to say hi and see what they offered. Just to get some information, I thought, not to do anything impulsive, but about ten minutes later I’d bought a 6-class pass. The problem is I’m immediately drawn to anything anyone says is good for me. I’m a vendor’s dream. And the vendor, of sorts, in the yoga office was a nice, older gentleman with graying hair, a soft voice and bare feet. Not only did he show me a lineup of all the classes available, he circled the ones I might be interested in and even talked to me about my injury and gave me some tips. How could I say no? That’s right, I couldn’t, so I handed over my money.

I attended my first class this past weekend. I chose a beginner’s class, and wasn’t sure what to expect since my last yoga experience had been so many years ago, but luckily, I found that these people were pretty much doing the same things we college kids had done. We put our mats down on the floor and laid down. The instructor turned on some soothing music and told us to take breaths and let go of “anything that wasn’t serving” us anymore. “Just let it go,” she said. The only thing I could think of that wasn’t serving me was all the leftover Halloween candy I keep gorging on every day, so I concentrated, and tried to let it go.

I immediately found that this yoga class differed from my previous experience in that these people - grown ups, and even worse, grown ups in the Chapel Hill/Carrboro area which can sometimes border on hippiedom - were not, like I’d been in college, afraid of what anyone thought of them. So when we were told to “breathe,” these people, they really breathed. Loud. And sometimes it sounded like they were having orgasms. And then I started to wonder if maybe they were having orgasms.

The actual class structure was similar to what I’d done before. There were similar positions - surprisingly, very hard for me, since I guess I haven’t tried balancing myself on my left hand and right leg in a full lunge person as of late - and there were similar exercises, like imagining we were surrounded, inside and out, by a bright, golden light.

At the end of class we did something like “deep relaxation,” where everyone laid on their backs (some people covered themselves with little blankets, and others put silken beanbags, handed out by the teacher, over their eyes) and we “came back into” our bodies. I’m not really sure what that meant, because when I was trying to do a shoulder stand - trying really, really hard to do a good one because I was one of the youngest in class and I couldn’t let these other people beat me - I’m pretty sure I was very “in my body,” and that there was some pain associated with being there.

When class was over I noticed that some of the students were hanging out and hugging each other and catching up and I could just tell they were totally into this lifestyle on a level I will never acheive. It’s not that I can’t get into yoga, because I can, and plan on keeping it up weekly. I mean, it feels really good and I do believe that something about it - maybe the yoga teachers and their softly-uttered instructions, or the music, or just taking a few hours to stretch out and relax, which you’d never take the time to do at home - is beneficial. And for that reason, I think I’ll like having it in my life.

But the thing is, I might still tell funny stories about the experience later on, which I’m thinking might exclude me from being close with these people, and besides, I don’t want to give anybody a false impression of how in tune with the Earth I am or anything, and if I’m out doing something, like, say, uprooting potted plants and engaging in general recklessness, I don’t want any new yoga friends to see me and think, “Jesus. And we thought she was so very, deeply relaxed.”

This morning, Election Day, started out well. A rainy day, but I like the rain, as it gives me all the more reason to stay inside, turn up the thermostat and be “very very productive.” After J and I got coffee (a hazlenut latte for me - what a great start, really!) and I dropped him off at work, I went to vote. Although the races aren’t as interesting here in North Carolina as they are in other states, I still wanted to fulfill that all-important duty and felt good about doing so.

I then came home to get to work (since I’m covering a county election for the Chapel Hill Herald I’ll be going into the office tonight, and thus, decided to work at home during the day) and the downfall of all my good intentions began when I signed into a variety of chat programs, plus email accounts, and had communicated with roughly 20 people before 10 a.m. (and more importantly, before I’d written even a modest amount of a story I was working on).

Next thing you know I’m eating leftover Halloween candy on the couch and have, disastrously, discovered the iMovie program, which, people, allows me to do things like upload movies of Mina and set them to music. To music!

My awesome plans for the day included, too, some sort of meaningful and lengthy blog entry, because I figured after quickly typing up a few pieces I’d have plenty of time to work on the personal essay format I’ve very-near-perfected here on my website. Alas, this was not to be, so I give you this, which isn’t that lengthy, but that gives you more time to watch TV. And as for meaningful: I hope everyone voted today.