MTM hates yoga. HATES IT. It is a testament to how supportive he is that he puts up with my obsession.
But when his doctor, his chiropractor and his masseuse all told him to incorporate yoga into his routine, I did what I had to do.
It's happening again. I'm having that insidious, looping bad dream. I am blind. Instead of murky pitch, my vision is scrubbed of color. Tones recede until they become intelligible needles at the edges of my sight lines, twinkling a last gasp of varied hues before falling into blankness.
My neighbors hate me. All of them. They're lying in bed, still hung over from a long night of boozing and video games, when I rev myself up.
I'm a loud girl, you see. When I get excited, I can't hold it in. It's impossible to keep quiet.
I must moan.