Pressing Information

Well now that joy has spread from the edge of one continent to another, we need to get to more pressing issues.

Humanling and I are huge on pilates and yoga. Ok, she loves the pilates more than the yoga but the two of us love to point out that Rodney Yee is "a man wearing a tiny little bathing suit" in some of the preview scenes of our DVD. I may or may not have Become A Fan on Facebook.

This leads to a question that I saw on About.com today. Read on and be perplexed no more:

I always seem to be farting in yoga class. Is there anything I can do?
Passing gas while practicing yoga is actually very common (prenatal yoga classes are the worst!). You're moving your body in ways that will stir up your guts, which is a good thing. We're all adults here, and farting is perfectly natural. I say, gauge the mood of the class and act accordingly--just like you would at, say, a cocktail party. If the class is light-hearted and casual, you might humorously acknowledge your emission. If the teacher and students are dead serious, pretend that nothing untoward has occurred. And maybe think about skipping those beans at lunch next time.

*****

Well the problem here is that I didn't have About.com, nor did Al Gore really super invent the internet in 1995 like he has recently. So when my friend Mike and I were in yoga class once night, the teacher brought it down to an advanced sort of quiet. We had our eyes closed, we were breathing. And then I heard someone's auditory invasion of the silence. Although it wasn't my own personal mission emission, I became a source of the worst kind of embarassment. I could not hold it in any longer, I literally burst out laughing. Eyes closed, meditation still attempting to go on with severed limbs, poked out eye sockets, and a cotton puff to fight with. You guys know how it is. The more I tried to stifle, the worse it got. The sound of this abrupt reality snatcher kept looping through my mind and I tried valiantly to shake in silence.

Only to bust out laughing again. Even as I post the photo for this blog, I am giggling like a pimply, awkward boy.

I swear I never snuck a peek either to see who it was. It probably would have made subsequent classes a lesson in history repeating itself. Ha ha...get it?

Tragic Brain Farts

It doesn't matter if you were born last week. We are designed for whatever reason to have brain farts. Perhaps you forget how to cry for food and speed paint a diaper by accident. I'll bet half of all diapers, or at least a third, weren't meant to happen on the timeline that it did.

My good buddy Ham, who I work with, and who has to endure sitting next to my Untimely Talks (such as when she has to do something completely mind engrossing), had an interesting and tragic episode today. What's beautiful is that she TOLD someone about it. And with her permission, because no photo is included, I get to repeat it and it will have its own link on the internet for all of eternity.

There are these tiny little counter top garbage pails. The kind that look like astronauts - they're round domes on top of a vertical cylinder. She got her coffee from the cafeteria and then proceeded to doctor it up. She uses about four to six sugars (its a large - she isn't hyper). She stood there opening each sugar packet and methodically pouring them each, one by one, into the garbage instead of her coffee. This would never have happened to me. I drink the free mud in the breakroom. The tragedy here is that no one witnessed. This had to be a passed down first generation oral story. It's good to see that they still exist.

But then my mind realized that I do sit right next to her and by hearing her story, I am capable of the same thing. Somehow.

Manifestation Dialed and Delivered.

As I was leaving work, I headed to my car thinking about how much I need to excercise. I'm small but the heart needs excercise. I thought about how much I love walking, how I love treadmills even. I wondered when I'd be able to purchase something, used or new.

And then my mind saw handles. Peeking out of a tower of clothes. That's my room. Those are my clothes. What is that handle attached to? It has to be an excercise thing. That's the only thing with hangable clothing handles. What species though??? What is it in my bedroom?! I've lived here since April and can't remember for the life of me what it is.

A rower? I think it had sliding things. I don't remember sitting down to use it. Or did I?

I couldn't wait to get home and find out!!! It's like Christmas when you can't remember!!!

I found out that I have a Leg Magic machine!!!! How excited am I?

Now I know what I'll be doing at night to keep active.

Maybe I ought to pick up a few sudoku puzzles as well. And some for Ham as well.