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Why I’m Never Doing Yoga Again

September 14, 2010

So I didn’t have time to go to Mysore practice this morning, being as I’m getting by back cracked at 7:45 and just wouldn’t have time to get in and out and clean again before my chiropractic appointment.  As is my wont, I dicked around too much this morning to even do a real practice at home, but I was dead set on getting a good 20-30 minutes in at least so I could call myself Good.  I got maybe 10.  Maybe.

What could possibly have disrupted my early morning stretch reverie?  The last final glurgles of the coffee pot finishing its day’s work?  The cats whining at the door of my room?  (It’s the only room in the house that’s off limits to them, so much like the front porch and back hallway, they just know that this is the door to a magical land of feline bliss, probably including more tasty foods than the strict diet regimen that fatty requires).  No, what broke my vinyasa this morning was an evil so… so evil that I can scarcely stand to look it in the eye.  And also I can’t see its eyes.  But if I could look it in the eye, I would do so squarely as I smacked it to a pile of legs and goop with the nearest shoe.

I was lying semi-peacefully in thread-the-needle (“semi” because I have a good deal of tension in my piriformis today, which Boyfriend kindly refers to as “BUTT KNOTS!” before grinding his fist in a less than therapeutic manner into the sore divot on the side of my hip), when suddenly a shimmer of gossamer and death wriggled toward me.  I leaped up not a moment too soon, for presently the almost transparent centipede was ON MY MAT.  I searched in vain for a shoe, but could find none,* grabbing instead a folded sheet of paper not near as fit for the job as a rolled up newspaper would have been.  Between its near-clear blood and my 20/200 uncorrected vision, I lost sight of it.  I imagine it’s under the dresser now, probably feasting on the flesh of tiny baby bunnies, waiting to spit the bones at me next time I dare to unroll my mat.

(* had the foul beast not cleverly cut off my path to the closet, I would have had my pick of over 50 distinct shoes to choose from)

Whenever I find a bit of wildlife in my house, I first do some recognaissance to get to know its ways.  I’ve had success in this way in fighting fruit flies, and in quelling a truly unfortunate infestation of lice picked up in a hotel I was stuck at after Ex was in a friend’s wedding (“All the groomsmen and their dates are staying there!  It’s going to be great!”  — “Really?  Are the bridesmaids staying there?” – “No, I think they’re staying somewhere else.” — “Hmmm.”).  The first time I saw a centipede in my house, I Googled it to see how quickly I could end its tenure in my domocile.  That was when I learned that they can live up to 6 years.  It’s one thing to take the garbage out every day for 2 weeks, or to stay off the upholstered furniture for that time, wearing only clothes you can wash on hot, but I can’t really fight anything with 6 year’s worth of staying power.  When I subsequently learned that they eat spiders, I tried with all my heart to come to peace with them.  I hate bugs, and spiders eat them.  But I hate spiders more, so perhaps centipedes are my answer.  But centipedes are at least as gross as spiders.  The only thing that makes them even a little less offensive is that they cannot spin silk from their asses so as to drop down into my bed from the ceiling as I sleep.

So the centipedes must go as well.  I thought about getting some frogs and releasing them in the basement, which I’m told is probably the locus of Centipede Central.  I figure once the frogs do their thing, then I’ll just need a hawk to take care of my frog problem.  Sure, then I have a hawk problem, but wouldn’t you rather deal with one angry hawk in your basement than a whole house full of insects?

So anyway, the upshot of all of this is that obviously I can no longer practice yoga in my home, or really engage in any activity that involves me sitting or lying on the floor.  It’s their house now.  I just pay for it.

EDIT:  After describing this morning’s scene to Boyfriend, he immediately noted something I, in my malformed, pre-caffeinated panic failed to see: the centipede was in the room the cats cannot enter.  The cats hunt centipedes.  Okay, Lola hunts centipedes.  Wahla hunts milk caps and imaginary sparklecorns.  But Lola hunts them well, with the keen efficiency of a supremely lazy compulsive eater who wants maximum food for minimum work.

There are only two possible explanations for this coincidence:

  1. The cats are in on it.  Regardless of who the ringleader may be – whether the centipede recruited the cats or vice versa – they may be in cahoots.  What better excuse for entrance into my forbidden lair of catly delights than a centipede hunt?
  2. The centipede acted alone. Pro: my cats are not out to get me.  Con: a genius centipede is in my house now.  Probably plotting his next move.
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