Groundhog Day
Talk about Groundhog Day (referring to the movie, of course with Bill Murray). Every morning at 6:35 a.m. this digital demon wakes me up with what is supposed to be an upbeat ring tone. It’s like elevator music on steroids with, it’s the stuff that makes you want to run. It’s perfect for getting my ass out of bed. I feel pretty darn well rested even though I’ve only been getting four to six hours sleep. The yoga is oxygenating my blood everyday and relaxing my mind so I need less rest. I force myself out of bed the first time the alarm goes off because I can’t imagine having to actually wake up to it again. My roommate Erin goes for five or six rounds. She must like the tune. I go pee, push a little button on the coffee machine that makes me some hot water, make some tea, put on some skimpy yoga wear, go outside and get my mat off the deck, eat some hemp hearts mixed with a banana, drink the tea, hope to poop, wake up the roommate after the fifth ballad hasn't gotten her up, make her coffee and say goodbye. I walk down the hall 54 steps to the elevator. I wait, other little yoga bodies walk up in time. The elevator door opens we shuffle inside, push “L” and wait. Sometimes we go down sometimes we go up and down, eventually we make it down. We walk towards the yoga room with zombie like movements, slow, careful, dazed. I sign in, put my mat down and depending on the time I head for the ocean or the pool. I prefer the ocean but can’t enjoy it so much after I was late one day and had to do a make up class on Saturday. Now I’m a little edgy about the time and tend to err on the side of caution. Eleven yoga classes is enough for one week, although surprisingly, 12 wasn’t too bad.
