My yoga class was wonderful, one of the best I’ve taken. My neighbor is an excellent teacher, good at conjuring a meditative state without being excessively touchy feely, a combination of asana talk with physiology. It hit just the right note for me and I feel great. I hope I can go back soon.

The studio is also beautiful. It’s in an old (probably late 19th/early 20th c.) storefront in the small downtown of a neighboring town. They gutted the first floor and took the walls down to the bare brick, with thick wood beams around the windows. The usual incense, candles and fountains you expect at a yoga studio are there, but nothing is overdone. The children’s playroom was stocked with wonderful toys, books and children’s videos and had a mural of jungle animals painted on the wall, big fluffy cushions for lounging on the floor, and a small table with some art projects available to whomever might wish to give them a try. AJ had a great time with The Girl Next Door and her big brother.

Earlier in the afternoon I had just been thinking how much I was looking forward to finishing this paper and this conference and getting back in a good routine with writing and exercise, how much I’d like to make it to yoga more regularly. And then the phone call from my department chair.

It’s funny, but after you’ve been in grad school so long you feel guilty about not being done, you assume that all calls from one’s department are going to be negative. I heard B’s voice on the phone and assumed I was going to be chastised for something, which is ridiculous, because they are very seldom that proactive about such things. I certainly wasn’t expecting to be asked to jump into a class in two weeks. Do I want to do it? Yes and no. But mostly yes. The time slot he suggested would be extremely difficult, so he’s going to check and see if he can find something better. I dug out my class notes from last spring and I’m pretty sure I could essentially teach from my notes. I was so excessively thorough. It should be a fraction of the work I put in last year. The important word in that last sentence is the “should.”

All during yoga I was trying to relax and stop making lists in my head like “reserve books” and “order texts” and “request blackboard site” and “update syllabus.” Om.

If I do this, here is what will happen. I must finish my paper this instant, make the handouts and AV materials and put it away. I must do all of the things on the above list this week. Next week I’m conferencing from Wednesday through Sunday. My parents arrive the following Friday, AJ’s birthday and party are Saturday and on Tuesday, my parents would leave and I would start. Or, if he can’t fix the time slot, I would start on Monday. I’m trying to get my head around it. If I lived near campus this would be a total no-brainer. It’s that killer commute that’s making me tired just thinking about it. Om.

At the end of class tonight, we did the flower pose. To accomplish this you have to sit on the floor with the soles of your feet together, pulled as close to your body as you can. You push your arms down through the space between the back of your calf and the back of your thigh, one on each side, pushing your legs up until your lower legs are resting on your bent elbows while you’re balancing on your backside. While I’m usually pretty good at the balancing poses, I’ve always had trouble with them. My neighbor was saying in her soothing voice, “remember you are like a delicate flower” as I was teetering back and forth like a Weeble feeling anything but delicate or flower-like. But then, perhaps that’s just another extension of real life – sometimes you blossom, and sometimes you just fall on your ass.

[Second entry today. Click back for all neuroses, all the time.]

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