Today Is Not My Day

Today is just not my day.  I didn’t sleep well, even though I took a sleeping pill last night.  Maybe having a seventy nine poundLabradorlying across my legs all night had something to do with my lack of sleep.  Consequently I didn’t even make the effort to get up and walk on the treadmill.  Sometime between last night after yoga class and this morning I lost one of my rings.  I didn’t notice it until I took my rings off to put on lotion this morning.  Talk about being aware of my surroundings. 

Since I spent the morning scouring the house, my gloves and the dogs’ mouths for any trace of the missing ring, I was running a little late to work.  That was when I noticed that I was almost out of gas.  That necessitated a trip to the gas station, woohoo.  There goes another thirty dollars and I get to smell like gas all day.  What a waste of the Calvin Klein, Euphoria I dearly love.

I get to work, turn on my computer and attempt to change my voicemail recording, but kept getting an automated response saying I was entering the wrong access code.  I thought “what the..”.  That was when I noticed that the extension on the display was not mine.  My first thought was that some jackass was playing a practical joke and had switched phones.  Not funny.  I spent five minutes looking through the extension list looking for the person whose extension I had.  I found it under “W”, of course it would be “W”.  To make matters worse, it was a person who worked the parts call center.  That means my phone would ring nonstop from customers wanting to order something that I would have no idea what they were asking for or how to get it to them.  I had no idea who had my phone or if they were calling 900 numbers on my extension, oh joy.  I could hear HR calling me to the office.  And it’s not even 7am.

I think I should just throw in the towel, go home and crawl back under the covers and the seventy nine pound lab.

I Got Rhythm – Not!

When I was supposed to be concentrating on my breathing and clearing my thoughts in yoga class, I started thinking about my performance or lack there of, at my last Zumba class.  I was thinking about Zumba class partially because it was on my mind and partially because I don’t dare totally relax in the breathing exercise for fear of falling asleep.  Mitch swears that I snore and even though I know I don’t snore, God forbid some fluke accident and I did maybe snore, I would be mortified.  And that would be the end of yoga.  Yoga classes twice a week and Zumba class once a week are my most recent attempt to get back in some semblance of shape.  I really love yoga class and the way I feel since starting the class last summer.  I can do a tripod again, something I hadn’t been able to do for decades.  I can’t remember the yoga name for it, but we called it a tripod in school.  A tripod is where you are on your hands and knees.  You lower your head to the mat between your hands, with your arms bent at a right angle, then bring your knees up and place them on your bent arms and balance yourself on your head and hands.  When you get really good, you can move up to a headstand, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.  Since I’ve had such great success doing yoga, I figured I’d branch out and take more challenging classes, like Zumba.  Yeah right.

I’ve had two classes so far, the first with two other women and the second was just me alone with the instructor.  I really like my instructor.  She is the sweetest person.  Young in shape and she says positive things to me.  I stood behind her off to the side so that I could watch her and myself in the mirror.  Big mistake!  I should have just watched her and not me.  Her moves were fluid and in perfect rhythm to the music, while I was stiff, graceless and behind on every move.  She would signal the upcoming move but half the time I was going the wrong direction, doing the move backwards, sideways or not at all.  Basically I suck at Zumba.  Maybe I was wearing the wrong clothes.  A baggy t-shirt and sweats are not especially sexy or hot looking when trying to dance to sultry Latin tunes.  Even the creepy old guy that came to gawk in the doorway took one look at me and ran screaming into the street.

Halfway through the class, as I was sucking air, sweating like a racehorse and becoming even more wooden in my moves, it dawned on me, maybe I should take up kickboxing.  I don’t have to be able to sway my hips in a sexy manner when doing a roundhouse kick.  I think I can do tough, because fluid and rhythm are definitely not in my body’s vocabulary.