The Older I Get

As I was driving through the city this morning, I passed a white van pulled in at an odd angle between a barbecue stand and a used car lot. It was a large square white van with flashing lights on the top and big blue letters on the side: Crisis Intervention Team.
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I thought about stopping to chat with them, sort of as a drive-up window for life coaching. Wouldn't that be awesome?
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Anyway they might've been busy. So I kept driving. But I wonder whether they take appointments.
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Right after that I saw a young couple walking down the street. It's a busy city thoroughfare with five lanes. It's raining sideways in a way you only see in Oregon and in the movies when there's a bad scene coming. Umbrellas are useless around here; most Oregonians under the age of 70 eschew them in favor of Columbia jackets.
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Both of the young people had their raincoats zipped up past their lips. Their hoods were drawn tight, exposing only noses and eyeglasses. They were holding hands and leaning into the wind.
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He had a huge blue loop of Cat5 cable over his shoulder. Ah, modern love. Let's trek over to your apartment and set up a network. Maybe a whole-house system.

Does anyone else see the ghost of Christmas future in that picture? I'm not sure how far to go with this. Grace in her dress-up best, Headlong in his dress shirt and camo. The look on her face. The look on his face. The clinging pose. This, my friends, was Gracie's idea of a red carpet pose at a family Oscar party hosted by good friends.

Mostly the party was just a chance to dress up and eat delicious foods. It wasn't even on the same day as the Academy Awards. Sarah does love a twirly dress.

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And I believe she could work a red carpet:

So I attended my first-ever yoga class this morning. Last night my husband observed me reading in my favorite chair. My feet were on the ottoman and completely flexed. This is my default foot position for some unknown reason. It may be the decades of dance that my feet and ankles are trying to counteract. It may be some inner tension pulling my toes artificially tight back toward the ceiling. Who knows. It's weird. It's not flattering. My little battered ballet toes, pudgy and flat-topped as can be, curled back in tension toward the ankle.

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Picture it if you will. Or if you want to.

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My husband thinks yoga will relax me. As he said, "Maybe yoga will stop that toe thing you're doing."

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Hmm. I hope so. But from here, where I sit reflecting as the girls attend archaeology class, it was a not-the-slightest-relaxing hour and a half of torture, people.

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Everywhere around me in the woodstove-heated converted barn were otherwise nice, normal women (no men in today's class). One "community supported agriculture" farm owner. One daycare provider. Two horseback riding women. A vineyard owner. A 20-something deeply tanned mom driving from Mexico to Canada with her 2-year-old. All hard bodied and hard breathing, sweating to beat the football team.

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And of course me. A mom of four, sometime hip-breaker, one-time ballerina, farm girl wannabe, somewhat dumplingesque and completely new to yoga. Because I'm a tiny bit competitive, and also because the teacher kept acting incredulous that it was my first time (fake it 'til you make it?), I did three minutes of the "frog" something-or-other, which if you know yoga maybe you know is also used to break people in half. If you know ballet, think of a plie' on crack.

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Yoga relax me? Maybe my big toe. Maybe as relaxed as a girl who considers stopping to consult a crisis intervention van. Who sees young love flourish in a driving rainstorm. Who sees her daughters growing up too fast. Who needs to stop typing and get back to work (on her breathing) now.