A sleeping turtle, brought to you by a reluctant spouse

I think I promised (threatened?) this photo a week or two ago. Well, here it is. I got myself into Kurmasana, then convinced a reluctant husband to not only put my hands together but also to get a camera. I then hooked my ankles, an voila, Homemade Supta K!

Today, there is no Supta K, however. Today, I look like the character on Grey’s Anatomy who was so disfigured in a ferry accident that she was entirely unrecognizable (and amnesia didn’t help), and eventually she got a whole new face and a love interest in cool, badboy, Dr. Alex Karev. My face is unrecognizable. My eyes are slits. And underneath the slits are huge slashes of black bruising, as if I were a football player who applied the black stuff under the eyes in the dark without a mirror.

I don’t mind though. It will be worth the trouble. I can’t wait to be able to breathe again so that I can try out Ujaii without an obstruction causing me to sound like I am “sniffing cocaine”, rather than “inhaling the scent of flowers”, as Mark said. Nice visual. Very effective, in my opinion, not that I know anything firsthand about sniffing cocaine. But I did see Scarface, so I can imagine.

It’s gorgeous outside, and I fell asleep on the outdoor sofa for about two hours, waking up to the Maytag Repairman announcing his arrival. Yes, sometimes Maytag Repairmen get to go on service calls. Remember those television commercials with the lonely Maytag Repair Guy?

One of the nice things about this place in which I live is that everyone is sooooo nice. My theory is that in the city, people don’t have to be nice because they know they may never have to deal with you again. But here, people are accountable because they’re going to be dealing with the same people over and over again. I like a little accountability.

And speaking of accountability, please remind me to never ever ever hire an interior designer ever ever ever again. The one I have been working wih is NOT nice, proving the rule by being the exception. She is, in fact, the devil. The devil, I tell you. The devil draws floor plans. More on that another time when I am not so aggravated by it.

It could appear that I am a control freak, I realize, unsatisfied with anyone I hire to do anything around this house. And maybe it’s a teensy weensy bit true. But more than that, I just can’t stomach paying someone to do something that I can do myself and that I enjoy doing. Gardening, decorating, shopping. Why would I hire someone to do any of those things for me? Now, mowing the lawn, that’s another story. I can promise that you won’t see me mowing the lawn. Or fixing a washing machine.

Okay, the vicodin is starting to kick in. Have I mentioned that sinus surgery gives you a wicked bad headache?

YC

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5 Responses to A sleeping turtle, brought to you by a reluctant spouse

  1. Debby says:

    Okay, I didn’t even read your post. I have comprehensive exams this coming Monday and Tuesday for my doctoral program, so I have spent the past week studying all day and getting drunk all night. Well, until like 9:30 when I go to sleep and prepare to get up at 5 to run and do it all over again. ANyway, I’m into the getting drunk part. BUt that photo is FUCKED UP. You need to realize how far you have come in your practice and give yourself credit for all that you have done. Yes, it was a long hard road. But we are not from bendy stock. We are Russian potato pickers. They don’t do stuff like that. That said, MAZEL TOV!

  2. Ursula says:

    I love the picture.

  3. YC says:

    Thanks Deb. Good luck on the exams. I can’t even imagine how hard it must be to do what you are doing. You’re a brave woman!

  4. YC says:

    Oh, and Russian potato pickers! HA! Is that realy true? I thought we were chicken farmers or something. Maybe that was when my grandpa (your Uncle Sonny)’s mother, Anna Golden was first here in this country. I’d really love to know all that. I should read Grandpa/Sonny’s memoir. Did you know he wrote one?

  5. Debby says:

    No! I’d love to read it too. I made up the thing about potato farmers. I know my mom used to live on a chicken farm in NJ. I don’t really know what they did it Russia. But it wasn’t anything glamourous.
    Thanks for the good luck. I need it.

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