The Place Where They Speak Belgian

Originally Posted Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Yesterday's presentation to the Board went well.  Better than that.  I was told they talked about it for a long time after.  I take our success to be an outcome of the fact that we have pretty much total disdain for the group.  People love it when it seems you just don't give a shit.  No nerves and just a tiny bit of haughtiness.  That's the ticket.  Tell the kids. 

But it made for a very long day, and last night I decided it was time for the second yoga session.  That was a mistake in so many ways.  It didn't begin until 6:30.  I hadn't eaten, was tired.  I tried drinking water beforehand but I must say I detest the filthy stuff.  The class didn't begin on time and when it did, it was the brutal, full Astanga series.  The little yoga instructor kept saying his inner light went out to ours, but I don't think he truly meant it.  I think he felt superior.  I could hear that in his faux yoga voice.  I am sure I disgusted him with my pools of sweat and lobster-like elasticity.  "Why is he here," I felt he was thinking.  "Maybe one of the other yoga studios sent him over to get rid of him."  I think I actually weeped during the session.  I may have even cried out, "Help me, help me!" but that was probably just a hallucination.  Apparently my hamstrings are only two inches long.  My shoulders. . . well, that is nothing but pain there.  At one point I didn't think I could roll up to sitting.  It was awful. 

By the time I had showered and was prepared to eat, it was nine.  This may not seem late to you, but I am sometimes in bed by then.  I sat at my computer while my leftover beans and rice heated in the pot drinking a good glass of yoga wine.  Dinner before the computer screen with a glass of wine.  Perfect end to a yoga session.  I don't know why they don't suggest that when you are leaving the studio.  Nirvana. 

I woke up over and over again during the night to see if I was a cripple yet.  Seems that might take another session or two.  I'm not trying hard enough, apparently. 

Today, my country plays Nadja's country.  It is a nationalistic/jingoistic thing.  Today we will crush the little turds from that place where they speak Belgian.  We will give them the whipping that their mother's should have long ago.  We will score run after run and they will weep with joy at being on the field with the great American team.  Nadja and I have a bet.  If America loses, Q has to drink a strong tea made from her oldest and dirtiest socks and underwear.  It is a Belgian tradition.  Only there it is considered a delicacy. 

O.K. I know we are not the favorites.  Sorry Q.  You may have to take one for the team :)