Well, I finally found the class at massage school that all of the interesting people are taking. The people who sit around and chomp apples with their big, white, healthy teeth on their breaks and talk about their ultra-cool yoga pants and very interesting lives. People who talk about the Work with a capital "W." It's a class about this kind of massage. And I was so stoked to take it.
So that was my weekend... pretty much all of it, in fact. Friday night, all day Saturday, all day Sunday. All of my classes so far have been easy for me. I've been able to master the skills and feel good about my intuition and intention when I practice bodywork, I've been praised and singled out by my teachers and practice partners, and I've slicked through all of the science classes. If I haven't mentioned it before, I certainly have a little (okay, medium-sized) piece of my personality that is most comfortable being good at things. Being the teacher's pet. In fact, If I'm not the star student, there's a decent chance I'll shut off the effort and just coast through under the radar. (see "college"). I know, it's sick. But I got a 101 in Anatomy and Physiology. That's right. Out of a hundred. Fucking Boo-Ya.
Then comes this weekend class. I get it, but I don't get it. I don't feel it. I'm clumsy with my practice partners and feel like I'm bumbling around in the dark. Swimming upstream. Poking and prodding and fucking it up. And the thing is, I really want to get it. And I know that if I do get it, it will seem so simple and peaceful and intuitive. Which makes me try to force it. Which makes it a graceless mess all the more. Meh. There will be much figurative climbing uphill and mind vs. body wrestling, as I have another all-weekend class in a couple of weeks.
Okay Syrah Syrah: Drank copious amounts of red wine Friday night on a solo mission to see how hungover I could be for my class on Saturday morning. It started out as a glass with A., but then he left to go play a show, and I stayed on the porch and called S. in Spokane and garbled on and on about how we should take a cruise and how I had saved sixty dollars in the past two weeks. Which is true, but not enough to get me on a cruise ship. Or even to a place where I might see a cruise ship from a distance. Fabulously, I was not as hung over as I should have been, which I credit to my ability to wake up at 4am and regret my behavior and chug two glasses of water and three Tylenol and go back to fitful sleep.
No, I am not ready for some Football: As previously mentioned in this blog, I live in an "urban" neighborhood, which is also described as historic, eclectic and ghetto, sometimes in the same breath, and it just happens to be directly across the river from the downtown of my city. Also directly across the river from the downtown is the giant waste of many types of resources, the Coliseum that houses (hosts?) the Shitty Professional Football Team that plays here. There are two convenient bridges from downtown to my neighborhood, and thanks to the fat-assed, mullet-wearing, hootin'-hollerin', tacky-merchandise-buying, hive mentality jackass fans of the Shitty Professional Football Team, both of those bridges were closed this afternoon as I tried, with my defeated little head down, to make my way home from class.
Bad Company: The list of restaurants to which I extend my erect middle finger has now grown to include any restaurant containing the words "Bread" or "Company." Any fast-casual restaurant that operates under either word is fast food in disguise and is sure to clean out your wallet while you clear your own damn table.
The Bird Report: Walking quickly, chattering, arms stretched out straight behind her, chin tucked down. Like she's a cartoon character with somewhere to go in a hurry. And she might be flying there.
Lots of kisses. Lots of silliness. Lots of personality. Lots of indications that she might be a KID soon, and might give up this baby business for a more exciting opportunity to be a bona fide PERSON. Which I guess makes sense, because she'll be one year old in a couple of weeks.
Three hundred sixty five nights of rocking her to sleep. Three hundred sixty five mornings of feeling like the luckiest little family in the world. **sigh**. I won't get all sappy-weepy on you, yet. But oh, get ready. It's brewing.
Go read a sweet entry about someone else's first 365 days.