OM(g)

As you dear reader know ("you" meaning "me" as I'm the only reader of this damn blog--Heart you Google!), I work in Online Advertising. The Devil Incarnate. No no, I'm just displaying dramatic flair with that one. It's great gig--for example, where else would I be able to work an 11.5 hour day and be able to check my email during that time period. What? Everywhere? Because the Internet is a household staple, you say? That being neither here nor there, I'm at my desk and the mind wanders. A lot. What am I going to eat for my pre-lunch snack. Did I do that last task I was supposed to do? What was that task anyhow? Is my heart palpating too fast? Can you suffer strokes at 27? When is lunch time?

I do yoga after work when I can, giving me respite from a tense existence. Yesterday at yoga I suffered miserably. It's a tortuous love affair we have, centered around my paying an exorbitant amount and sweating out, in a 105 degree room, what little hydration I stockpiled that day. The beauty of yoga is the sole focus on the self. Only you and your breath. Oh, and that little 110 lb. minx who looks like a pretzel next to you--a sex pretzel that you can't help wanting to take a bite out of. Or just take out (of the picture) completely. God I love yoga. So peaceful. So Zen-like. Really makes me feel good about myself, forcing me to accept all of the flaws I'm intently focusing on in the mirror for exactly 1 hour and 30 minutes of intense sweating, creating rivulets that drip and pool in the cellulite dents. AWESOME.