A Week of Irony and Self Awareness

I find myself somewhat scattered and unable to focus this morning, but need to get two things out:

1.  It dawned on me today that it’s ironic that I write a blog about music, and yet I can’t listen to music while I write. 

2.  I realized this week that I am still not mature enough for yoga. (“Namaste, Eddie“)   On my way to hot yoga, every single week, I sing this Foreigner-inspired tune in my head:  Hot yoga, check it and see/Heat the room up to a hundred and three/Come on baby can you Downward Dog/it’s hot yoga, it’s hot yoga…

(Self awareness and publication of one’s dorkiness is important, don’t you think?)

Namaste, Eddie

I am not mature enough to be a yoga person.  I am too fidgety, and I can’t clear my mind, and, most of all, the trippy new age music either annoys me or makes me giggle.  

Lately though, I’ve been doing hot yoga, and I have to say that I really like it.  I think the stench of the sweaty guy next to me is distraction enough from the music, and the heat makes my non-flexible body feel stretchier.

I found my musical soulmate at a coffee house once.  The playlist was perfect, and this is not something that happens everyday.  But I took that poor barista for granted, and paid for it by sitting through hours of bad coffee house playlists later on.

Therefore, I intend to cherish the yoga teacher that I have found, who just might be my yoga music soulmate. I am loath to reveal her location for fear that the class will become too crowded.  Let’s just say — Jimi Hendrix, Radiohead, Eddie Vedder – now that is music I can Downward Dog to.