Earlier this week Keith and I and a group of friends went to hear Neal Conan from NPR's "Talk of the Nation." Conan has always struck me as incredibly witty and sane so I figured it would be a great talk. It wasn't. It wasn't bad, mind you, but Conan said nothing that we all didn't already know. Of course, maybe I hang out with an incredibly sophisticated, educated, and articulate crowd. Anyway, afterward, everyone headed to one of the friend's houses for drinks. Except me. I went home to bed.
I do not like being The Person Who Goes Home to Bed. The person who has trouble staying awake past 9 pm. The person whose first reaction to any kind of invitation is to think, "Do I have to?" The person whose idea of an especially good time is to be alone with a big bowl of vegetarian chili and a Doctor Who episode.
All evidence to the contrary, I really am not that person. The real me loves to spend time with good friends. The real me has a passion for politics and intense conversation. The real me enjoys exploring and engaging and experimenting. It's just that the real me has somehow gotten encased in, swallowed up by this carcass, this husk that seems to consist of nothing but aches. Every morning I wake and make plans, blueprints, reallly, for how to construct the day so that I am really me. And every day the husk makes a mockery of those plans, distorts the blueprints.
And it's really pissing me off.
My yoga instructor ends every class with this meditation: breathing deeply, she intones, "Embrace, affirm, accept your body, just as it is, just where it is, here and now, at this moment." Right. Not a chance. There's me and there's the husk and between us is the line in the sand. I have had it. I hereby declare war.
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