Purple Rain

The yoga instructor said we should all feel nauseous at least once a day. I have already forgiven her for misusing nauseous (so oft-repeated that misuse) when we all know she meant to say nauseated. Semantics aside, let us consider the sentiments. Should we all be forced to the edges of intestinal chaos at least once a day? Really? What function would it serve if we all were moved by something so ghastly or repugnant that we could barely stomach it? I suppose I can understand that when we're close to puking, maybe we're close to living as we should, lacking safety, comfort, calculation. I guess I just don't really like to almost ralph all that much, all that often.

After the yogi misused the word nauseous, we shifted to all floor stretches, which do not normally make me nauseated. As we were hunched over in pigeon pose, the yogi switched the music from slow and mellow to…the artist formerly known (and, as far as I know) currently known as Prince. Do not get me wrong, I do enjoy the Prince. I am a fan of the raspberry beret, and I am glad I do not have to be rich to be your girl, and I do not dislike when doves cry. But I thought we were doing yoga? And suddenly Prince is making the room get all swoony over Purple Rain, Pu-u-urple Rain. Then! Lululemon next to me starts singing along. Then! Yoga instructor says, "I know you guys all want to sing along!" Whaaaa! BARRRF. I know this sounds so cranky, and who feels anything but blissed out during yoga, but I really resent this new movement to incorporate semi-poppy music into the fabric of the exercise. One recent class I attended, yogi dude was rocking Steve Miller Band. I really thought we were going for centering? Not midnight toking?

Anyway. I suppose yoga is a lot like golf or pizza. Even when it's bad, it was still a good idea.

Honk, Taxi

Have you ever seen the bumper sticker that says, "Honk if you're Amish"? I've seen it a few times. I laugh uproariously every time I do. I mean...that's so funny, right? Amish don't drive car--wai-- that's so, so funny. *** He's wearing skater shoes. Indie jeans. An androgynous haircut, but edgy-like. I pronounce his name, which in English is a verb, conjugated in the past tense. I give myself props for pronouncing his name correctly.

I can tell English is not his first language.

I use him as a proper noun in the sentence I am diagramming for the class. Past Tense Verb and I thank you for your support. Your support was important to Past Tense Verb and me.

At the end of the second meeting of class, Past Tense Verb approaches me. My name is Past Tense Verb, but, "I am girl."

This is new. I fumble to apologize, do I apologize, is it better to apologize, omg, OMG, is my tongue actually unfurling out of my mouth like a robot trying to reboot itself?

***

Our front tire had a nail puncturing it last week, which I learned after Loverpants took it to the tire place, which was after he came home and swapped the spare with the punctured tire in the freezing cold, which was after I called my friend whose wife just had TWINS to take me to the nappy and ferry me home with the kids, which was after we had taken a TAXI with zero carseats to the nanny (good thing my boy wears a helmet, heh!), which was after I called four different taxi services, which was after I wondered if I honked loud enough, would the Amish come and pick me up?

*** Dear Winter. You are made of terrible. But I've still got my wits about me. Yours, Kendra

The last meal of my twenties

We flew into Charlotte, NC because, ahem, JETBLUE!!! Yeah, I know, I'm about eleven years late to the JETBLUE!!! party (and did you hear about this great show "Gilmore Girls"? Because it's really fabulous). That JETBLUE!!! really is something, though. They seem to abide by the philosophy that if you just keep the passengers snacking and headphoned with full cable access, the flight should go smoothly. My lands, those JETBLUE!!! peeps be smart. Ultimately, though, we were headed to Asheville, NC where we spent the last four days, and more specifically where I spent four days asking Lovey Loverpants if we could spend another four days in Asheville, NC. Asheville, you ravished me so!!

But anyway, on the way from Charlotte to Asheville, we stopped at Nowhere In Particular Exit Off North Carolina Interstate and Loverpants said, "Where do we want to eat?" to which I said, "The least shady place." We passed menfolk trying to pass as long-haired boys hanging out at the gas n' sip with their banana yellow muscle cars (there were multiple!) and pulled in to the WAFFLE HOUSE. I was a tinge nervous that I had hyped up WAFFLE HOUSE in my head based on the vestigial sense memory I have of going there in 1990 with my parents en route to Dallas, TX (from Cleveland, OH, in a light blue minivan, uggggo!) but let me tell you, the waffle I ate on Thursday night --the last meal of my twentysomethings -- did not disappoint.

Loverpants took a bite. Oh the buttery mouth-melting fluffiness of it.

Loverpants said to the waitress who was hovering in a friendly yet slightly disconcerting way that he had never been to a WAFFLE HOUSE before. "That waffle is so good!" he said.

"That's what we're famous for," said the waitress, with pride and authority...

...at which point I nearly fell out of my chair from the shock.

STOP IT RIGHT THERE.

You kid.

WAFFLE HOUSE? Is famous for WAFFLES?

Are you certain it's not Long John Silver's? I mean. You're sure?