The view from my yoga mat changes whenever Doc B boards a flight to go sit her small butt on a meditation cushion for ten days straight. My mat and I don’t get to stretch out on the hardwood floor boards of the yoga studio as often because there is just too much to do to keep the house running. When Doc B’s away, I am anything but bored. Add a sick cat to the mix, one who won’t eat unless it’s a flame-broiled Châteaubriand that was marinated for exactly 32 hours in three parts wild caught salmon juice to two parts organic chicken stock to one part ham and ham gravy Gerber baby food, and it gets a bit crazy.
For Doc B’s most recent trip, the craziness began as I was driving her to the airport. We passed a two story high mountain of mulch that had a tiny “FREE” sign stuck in it. So after the Hartsfield drop off, the truck, my shovel and I made three trips to that mulch mound. By hand (shoulder, leg and back) I filled up that truck bed, as well as the floor boards, and scattered each load around the yard. It wasn’t yoga, but it certainly was a workout. And it ended with a beer on the truck’s tailgate.
Later in the week, Dr. R. told me about an opportunity for some free wood that he and I could use to make bonsai benches. His builder was tearing down a house and we were welcome to haul away as many deck boards as we could unscrew. So the truck and I made another trip, this time with a drill and a stash of star bits, to lunge, cat/cow and wide-legged forward fold into the removal of at least 200 screws from 20 planks. Again, it wasn’t yoga, but it sure was a workout. And it ended with a beer on Dr. R’s intact deck.
I couldn’t stand the sight of those boards stacked at the end of the driveway, so of course I had to borrow Wilson’s miter saw and crank out the tables for the bonsai. More lunges, warriors, backbends and inversions to complete that task. Not an official yoga class because yes, it ended with beer.
The day before Doc B’s return, I enrolled in a juniper bonsai workshop followed by an Atlanta Bonsai Society board meeting where I was
coerced into elected to serve a one year term as the corresponding secretary. No beer this time; I had to race home and clean the house before Doc B could see what a mess the cats and I had made of the place.
Speaking of cats, here’s a tip: when your sick feline requires a trans-dermal appetite stimulant applied to his ear flap twice a day, make sure you don’t get any on you. Before you know it, you might end up eating an entire bag of biodynamic pasta whether you’re bored or not…with beer. I sure am glad Doc B is home.