Pickles & Dimes

Since the honeymoon, I haven’t been sleeping well, due to:

1. Our queen-sized bed. We had a king on our honeymoon. There is a HUGE difference: on the king, I could roll over three times and still not be in the same ZIP code as Jason. On our queen, I routinely feel his elbow attempting a tracheotomy on my throat.

2. The cats. My god, THE CATS. Specifically, Abby. Sunny has been rather placid and peaceful lately, and has forsaken her early morning dining demands for sitting heavily on my chest or kidneys. But Abby, Abby needs to be lying right next to me, but only if I’m lying on my right side so she can burrow her head next to my chin and insert her whiskers into my nostrils. If I turn over, I then have to endure loud lip smacking (hint: worst noise ever) and repeated blanket pawing until I comply with her required bed feng shui.

3. Jason used to get up around 6:00 to feed the cats. This left me a good 30-60 minutes to sleep uninterrupted and to enjoy more than 37% of the bed. It was the best sleep of my night. However, because of Sunny’s good behavior, Jason now doesn’t get up until the alarm goes off at 6:47. I am not a fan of this new development.

This week, we started getting up earlier (again, NOT A FAN) to work out. On Monday, we lifted weights. On Tuesday, I slept in because I had slept the sleep of the non-sleeping. (Jason: “You couldn’t even make it TWO DAYS?”) Today, since I wasn’t leaping or jumping or performing any other type of cardiac activity at the opportunity to work out, I suggested yoga.

Jason was immediately skeptical, because we wouldn’t be gasping for air or sweating or clanking heavy weight plates, but I wanted something low-impact so I wouldn’t feel the need to take my own life. And? He likes to listen to talk radio in the morning, and I despise the existence of talk radio, and the combination of Early Morning + Exercise + Talk Radio makes me think really bad thoughts. Thoughts where I am miraculously skilled in the ways of high-tech weaponry and judo.

We assembled in our living room to watch the perky, chestless DVD woman perform her yoga moves on a deserted Hawaiian island while ocean waves lapped gently in the background. Meanwhile, I performed my own, less-flexible moves on a $2 yoga mat three feet from the litterboxes, next to a husband who kept making fun of me (“She’s facing right – you’re not very coordinated, are you?”) and a cat who made well-timed, high-speed head butts into my limbs as I was balancing precariously on one foot and attempting to feel the insides of my knees ‘reaching toward the sky.’

But on a positive note: after yoga, my hip doesn’t make that embarrassingly loud popping noise when I lean over in my work chair; a noise so age-group inappropriate it attracts the attention of coworkers who ask loudly in alarm, “What the hell was THAT?”

AND, no talk radio. Namaste.