Oh yeah, and I practiced

and it was good. Yoga's like life, which is like a boxa choklits. You never know whatcher gunna git.

I woke up today feeling all tired and grumpy and burnt out and ready to just have my surgery and take my six weeks off. I didn't even kid myself about maybe going to the shala today. I just came home, put my feet up, drank my coffee, read a trashy magazine, caught "The Nine" on ABC's website (it's like Lost, only instead of being lost on an island, the characters in The Nine are lost in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; like Lost, it even has a Party of Five veteran, in this case, Scott Wolf) and then wrote about Lost. And that was my day up until it was time to pick Brian up to go to his tennis lesson.

Then somehow, I had the notion to practice. Not the urge, but the idea. And I did it. And I did it smoothly and efficiently, without stopping myself several times in between poses to sit and stare at nothing. Supta K was far better today - about four inches between the fingertips as I held my hand towel. That's not too bad for getting into it myself, is it?

Tomorrow is the Moonday, also known as "License to Not Practice and Not Feel Guilty About It."

YC