Grunge
I went to the grocery store wearing sweat pants tonight, like some sort of obese couchwhale making the trek to pick up an oven-bake pizza and a 2-liter of Coca-Cola. I didn't care who saw me because it was store time, and if I had gone home to change then I would have missed store time ended up eating some unholy casserole of whatever the hell was in the fridge and pantry.
I also had a better reason for not caring. That's because my sweat pants were noble; they were yoga sweat pants. Not those yoga-specific pants that women with pony tails wear, but sweat pants worn to do yoga. I had just come from yoga because I started doing yoga. Tonight was my third class, and I love it.
I started because my shoulder hurts from too much guitar. A doctor, a massage therapist, and friends who practice yoga have insisted it's the best way to relieve such pain. Or swimming they say, but yoga seemed more interesting and less chlorinated.
When I'm around new group of people I can't help but imagine the worst possible psychological landscape, for example: that all the women in the class think I am there to pick up on them. Or even worse, that I am there to leer at them. So I just keep my head down and ignore everyone but the instructor.
But the instructor tonight was attractive. She reminded me of a friend who I love dearly, in fact. I felt as if she might find me interesting, but that could have just been her open chakras or whathaveyous.
Like many such enlightened women, this yoga instructor doesn't shave her armpits. I find that somewhat unattractive, although not a deal breaker for me anymore after living in Portland for nearly three years (this May). More than any sort of repulsion, I anticipate the eventual conversation in which I would have to admit that I would prefer her armpits shaved. It's not like I would push the issue, but these earthly things have ways of becoming levers in more spiritual matters, and I am sometimes guilty of being honest about the wrong things.
Current Music: Something New Agey