Tonight was the pilates/yoga class. The woman who taught was subbing for the regular guy, the one who brings us tomatoes from his garden. She was good, but a little California new agey for me. During the cooldown/relaxing she was talking to us about emotions and forgiveness and other things I didn’t hear because I was busy concocting possible scenarios for seasons four and five of Six Feet Under (which I haven’t started watching yet, but obviously I need to because I am so dependent and is there a twelve step program for me to join after I’m done with season five and all the dvd extras?) and also thinking about how during most of the class what I was mostly thinking, besides, ‘hmmmmm, I don’t think I like the pilates part of this,’ was how hard it is to not fart. I can meditate and be serious about the spiritual side of yoga with the hippiest of the hippie, however, when you are practicing yoga at a health club and every time you bend forward (often in yoga, case you wondered) you are putting your butt in the face of everyone on the treadmills, bikes and complicated machines that I can’t use because they’ll probably just make me pee, it’s hard to get to that space. Oh well.
When I came home the big kids had already been dropped off from their dinner visit with their dad. Sophie sat at the table with me, eating pasta. She began by asking questions about chicken eggs, chicks and chickens. Turns out she had a grand master plan involving chickens, a backpack, and outer space travel. She determined that since chickens don’t have arms, she could put some in a backpack, where they would be unable to escape because they would not be able to operate the zipper. Then she make them fly while she was wearing the backpack. We talked about chicks and chickens. She said that she wanted to eat all the chickens, but keep the chicks in a cave, or a cage, whichever, and sometimes she would carry them around in her pocket to enjoy the high cute factor inherent in the fluffy chick.
Near the end of the chicken conversation, she stopped and looked at me. ‘Where were you, Mama?’ she asked. I told her that I was at yoga class. She said, ‘Did you take off your shoes and say HIIII-YA!?’
I cracked up and almost had a pasta out the nose event. ‘No,’ I told her, ‘it was yoga, you know, like on your Yoga Kids tape.’ The lightbulb went on over her little head. I continued, ‘we did the some poses you know, like child’s pose, cat, cow and down dog.’ She got really excited and smiled at me. ‘Did’ja geta sing the MamaStay song, too?’ ‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘that was the best part.’ ‘Good mama, she said, that’s good.’