One of the doctors from the walk-in clinic spoke to me in the Break Closet this morning.
"You don't look like your normal cheerful, happy self," she said.
Obviously, I looked around to see to whom she was speaking, but as the maximum occupancy of the Break Closet is only 2.5, it was a pretty safe bet she meant me. No, I don't know if she's being medicated or not. Or maybe she was mocking me. Shockingly, some people do. But, assuming the best of her, I took her words at face value and responded.
Two words for you," I said. "Hot. Yoga."
She responded appropriately, with horror and distress. I followed up with two more words.
"Ohhh," she sighed. "I don't think it's working for you. You aura is all gray." Vague, circular hand motions accompanied this pronouncement.
We'll pause for a moment, allowing anyone who needs it time to snort with disdain. Or vomit. Or chortle. Chortling is a particularly mocking type of laughter, I find.
If we divest the good doctor's statement of crystals and energy candles, I think we'll find the heart of the comment to be accurate. Hot yoga this morning was especially hideous, and I have no idea why. Actually, now that I think of it, each class has been more awful than the last. You may wonder, darling invisible one, why I continue.
Again, I have no idea why.
I think it's a little like visiting family one doesn't like all that well. One feels one ought to go, and the concept seems good. One knows it will not be a romp in the forest, with bluebirds of happiness chirping a joyful little tune around one's head, but surely, one might think, it cannot be so terribly bad. If nothing else, one reasons, it will be brief.
In this case, one would be dead wrong.
Ah, well. I can always just blame Roommate. She's good for that.
Five classes down. Five to go. I have no idea why I'm still doing this.