Caterwauling

I picked up my mail after it had gotten dark last night, and I just peeked into my bag (where I’d shoved it) to see what it yielded. And I saw something addressed to me at the P.R. firm/party-planning company I’d started (and forgotten completely about). It’s separate from my now-defunct freelance editorial gig. Aw, hell, who has time to freelance when the pile on the desk at the full-time gig never lets up?

I smiled at the sight of my company name, but I wasn’t sure whether it was like hearing from an old friend (or a recurring dream) or a stark reminder of one of those many things I started but never finished.

I’d secured the name with such hopes and dreams and plans. Then I tackled the company idea when I was sad and tired and desperate — the wrong reasons to start any venture. And finally, I just outright let it slide into the far reaches of my mental to-do list. Perhaps the only way I will ever be CEO of a company is if I start the damn company myself. And this reminds me that I need to register the business in D.C. — well, either that or resign myself to corporate life for a little while longer until I’m ready to figure out if the original dream is still valid or whether it’s shifted into something completely different.

I think it’s that my partner in crime left for the opposite coast. This was “our” project. We had our own separate businesses, but this was the joint venture that was going to put us on the proverbial map. And it still will, I know it. Now just isn’t the time. But that’s OK. That just means that when I say better days are ahead, I already know the types of things that are going to fill them. And now is the time to prepare myself for those challenges, but I have a few (thousand) others to tackle in the interim.

Somehow, saying “Yoga!” doesn’t quite have the punch of “Toga!” but then again, in my own personal “Animal House,” I only have two cats and not a fraternity. 😉

I’m going to try to catch a freebie yoga class on Friday, that is, assuming I’m out of work on time. I think I may blow my tiny windfall on some classes, assuming I don’t outright die at the first whisper of exertion.

I used to be able to get my damn ankles behind my ears. And I was never what you’d call even remotely anything other than pudgy — but alas, flexibility was something only reserved for the teens to the 20s. These days, my back hurts, my ass hurts and perhaps it’s a good thing, but the effort it would take to get up and get a snack is too much.

Some days I remind myself of a character in a Judy Blume book (I think. I used to read so much that I really forget), wherein the girl gave up her nightly bowl of ice cream and, on the first night she did so, she ran to the mirror to see if giving it up had made her skinny. I swear, I will never forget that line of the book as long as I live, even if I forget which book it was.

If yoga turns out to be no-ga, due to deadlines or just plain not being motivated enough, then that little slush fund is going into the plastic surgery fund. Lipo! Lipo! Lipo! 😉