The sun is shining (again) in Chicago, and (again) I’m letting it slide that it’s about 20 degrees out.
It’s gonna have to end at some point, right?
In the meantime, I headed over to hot yoga to warm up.
Correction: to melt right into a puddle on my mat in front of my more flexible peers.
In any case, getting back onto the floor after a week off meant limited twisting ability, but there is always something to work on.
And headstands make me feel like I’m accomplishing something.
Is that weird?
I know it’s weird, never mind.
Last night, both pre and post yoga, I curled up on the couch with some gluten-free snacks I’m trying out and watched the Real Housewives.
The Beverly Hills ones.
Chickens, they are the worst people I have ever seen on television.
And if they were my friends, I would cry every single night.
That’s a reality-TV habit I’ve got to kick before I start spilling family secrets and talking about everyone I know.
All while being mostly made of artificial parts.
I’ve never been so happy to be a regular person.
And with that, I’m off to hop on the public transportation and get to it.
Enjoy this one, chickadees.