Call it a mid-life crisis. Or call it another day. I'm ready to make some major changes,Chickens. I watched "What the Bleep Do We Know?" at PC last week, and while Marlee Matlin deserves to have her SAG card revoked, it was an extremely thought-provoking movie, which was the whole point--that what we think, we create. Anyway, for me, big change requires small steps, so I signed my seventeen-year-old daughter George and myself up for a private yoga lesson (You didn't think I was going by myself, did you?). We met Cindy, the Yoga Bear, at her studio this afternoon, where I could learn the basics in safety and isolation before facing a roomful of graceful Kundalingus Barbies in a regular class. I knew George wouldn't laugh at me, because her prom is next week and she doesn't have her shoes yet. The studio, in a little cottage off the historic square in Marietta, was exactly as you'd expect: futon furniture, crystals, dreamcatchers, one of those paintings of a waterfall with no source, and Enya oozing from the walls. It was all very zencere, but I had a hard time "centering" and "breathing" as I was told to do, because I was surrounded by mirrors reflecting not only my ass, but also my bad haircut. In one mirror it looked like a mullet, and in the other more like a pelt. My hair, that is. The ass looked like your grandma's.
I stuck it out the full hour and a half, though. Small steps.