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Down, Dog!

January 23, 2011

The plan only works if executed exactly as designed.  The plan only works if nothing interrupts its perfect flow.  According to the plan, I make grotesquely painful mortgage payments every month.  According to the plan, I make Draconian restrictions to my spending to continue saving at miserly rate.  According to the plan, I do these things for 18 more months, after which my house is my own, my coffers are bulging, and I can quit my job and go back to school full time.  The plan allows me to take one class at a time between now and then – basically completing a semester in a year and half, but most importantly keeping me moving, understanding as I do the Newton’s first law of motion.  This body must stay in motion; it’s been at rest too damned long.

The plan doesn’t account for almost $5000 in yoga teacher training. The plan most definitely does not account for $5000 in expenses ($6k after lodging, most likely) that have no reasonable chance of paying for themselves in the foreseeable future. So don’t think my brain isn’t howling at my gut for driving us all up to Toronto today for, basically, a yoga class and lunch.  Alone.  In a blizzard.

But the training fits perfectly between Spring semester and Summer session, and it is allegedly a great program.  And I did have to check the studio out before applying.  But none of those half-baked reasons are all that compelling.  In reality, I went because I had to, and I’m applying because I have to.  Even with no reason to think I’ll ever teach a class, I have to, because every day I sit in that cubicle, a tiny piece of me dies.  So the compulsion to pursue this nips at my ankles like a yappy little dog that won’t allow itself to be ignored.

This was made painfully clear on Friday when I took the news that I’d been dismissed from jury duty as hard as if this had been a really choice job interview.  Was it something I said?  Should I have taken out my nose ring?  Should I have dressed nicer?  Should I not have mentioned I work with the defendant’s partner’s son? I just wanted so badly to do something else for a week – to sit quietly and listen attentively, to pay attention to one thing for a whole week, then to make a decision having actually taken the time to consider all of the available information.  What decadence!

All evidence indicates that my job must blow beyond the normal limits of modern employment.  I was disappointed, almost distraught, to have gotten out of jury duty.  On my way out, a cop congratulated me when I told him I wouldn’t be back.  His words rang hollow.  How I longed to spend the week listening to the three attorneys – we’ll call them, for the sakes of both anonymity and accuracy, Sassy, Dopey, and Boring – foist medical jargon and scathing accusations around a courtroom.  How I would have relished a week of learning about diverticulitis, operating room procedure, and the pains of misplaced surgical sponges.  Instead, I shall return to my assigned post, create a few meaningless Powerpoint presentations for a few assholic ingrates, interview a few lackluster candidates for a few crappy positions, and cry a few times for a few overly-demanding emails.

In other words, I’ll go back to my usual routine.

So maybe that’s why it’s so critical that I apply for this program.  Maybe that’s why I’m terrified to do so, lest I be denied.  Maybe that’s why I’m so keen to take even the most basic of nutrition classes (starting this week!).  Maybe that’s why I need to pursue every reasonable avenue toward Motion.  Because Rest is no longer an option.

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