I'd wish for the end of this term to come at the speed of sound, however, the beginning of May brings Intersession.
Which may or may not be any more relaxing that what I'm experiencing right now.
Weeks of getting up at 5.00 am to get Emily up to be on time for school at 8.15 am, to read paper drafts, theses drafts, develop exams, in addition to book launches, birthday parties -- surprise or otherwise, family dinners, has left me more tired than almost any other time in my life.
At least that what it feels like right now.
I am certain there are times when all the kids were sick at the same time, and I was teaching full time while working on the final draft of my dissertation that I was tired.
I just don't remember them right now because they aren't as present as the tired I'm experiencing right now.
Not that I haven't tried to find some time for myself before collapsing into bed at 9.00 pm.
Stephen and I started a yoga class yesterday.
5.15 to 6.45 pm, above a bike store.
My Tuesday yoga class is coming to an end next week, thus leaving me yoga-less unless I found another class.
So I did.
And made Stephen come with me.
Because if anyone needs yoga, it's Stephen.
And anyone who thinks that yoga isn't a full workout, doesn't make you sweat and stretch your muscles to the point where you feel something is going to snap, you haven't tried yoga.
You should.
There is, really, no downside to yoga.
Except. . .
For some reason, yoga releases things in me that should not be released in mixed company.
Or any company for that matter, but doing it in front of family doesn't count.
Farting.
Yoga makes me fart.
Instead of focusing on poses, where my feet should or shouldn't be and if I have my shoulders underneath me. . .
I am clenching my gluteus maximus together with an intensity that would impress my yoga teacher if she knew what I was doing.
I wasn't so lucky tonight.
We tried a new pose.
One where we lie on our side, roll over onto our backs and stretch our legs up against the wall.
In the process of rolling and stretching I farted.
Not a gentle "pooooofffff" kind of fart.
But an obnoxiously loud ppppppppppplllllllllllllppppprrrrrrrrrrttttttpppppppppppttttttttttttrrrrrlllllllllllrrrrrrrrtttttttt
kind of fart.
In a room with acoustics that would make the Met Opera House jealous.
No one acknowledged that they heard it.
But unless they were deaf, had cotton shoved into every orifice of their ears and could feel no vibrations whatsoever in any part of their body, they heard it.
Loud and clear.
And I just laid on the floor, feet against the wall, face redder than the shirt I was wearing pretending it wasn't me who just released a cloud of potentially lethal methane into the serene yoga atmosphere.
Figures.
When you need a dog, there are none to be found.
Em had a big day yesterday.
She got her first car.
Not that she has a licence to operate this car, but that isn't the issue right now.
She has a car.
Given to her by my brother, who purchased a new-to-him vehicle.
The car, in 2000, was my mother's.
My brother and his wife bought it when it was clear my mother's driving days had come to an end.
This is the same car Em used to sit in, driven by my mother, Em in the front seat wearing my mother's cats eyes sunglasses.
With my mother reminding her not to fall asleep.
She'd always fall asleep.
And now, it's her car.
Time goes by far, far too quickly.
A fact I am reminded of each and every day I look at my children.
I've never seen Em so happy or ecstatic.
Ever.
Except maybe when she's been away from Reilley for an extended period of time.
The car?
A 2000 Hyundai Elantra.
It's even the color in the picture.
It does need some work.
Okay, more than a little work.
But, the benefit of not being able to drive it right now is that she'll have the time to work and save money for the repairs.
And I'll have time to get used to Em having a car.
That'll take a lot of time.
My first car was a 1983 Toyota Tercel.
The red one.
I still miss that car.
The giving of the car hasn't happened without some discontent.
Mer-discontent.
Of course.
I expected nothing less.
Mer who forgets that grandma spent the equivalent of a luxury car on her when she lived in Ontario.
Enough said.
Title Lyric: My First Car by Jason Blaine
No comments:
Post a Comment