Lazy day on the job. Less a job than a weekly gig of mine. Not good money, but easy, non-taxing. Puts me in contact with the younger generations, and gives me time to do my "other work." Head isn't really up to that other work today, though. Nah. Today I'm like old' Abe Lincoln, juss settin' and thinkin'. This week has been a bust. Next week has to go differently.

After a massive spasm of productivity (70 pages in six weeks–some of them pretty good), I've fallen off the edge of my own attention span. I know I am the three-note trumpet, but the reasons for my derailment are obvious to me: diet, exercise, alone-time. Or rather, shitty diet, no exercise, no alone-time. It makes sense. These things hang together; when one of them goes, the others generally follow.

My plan had been to return to the fortress of solitude (aka my apartment) this past Tuesday, but my boyfriend's hockey team wound up winning their semi-final, so I had to stick around for the final (they lost). And then my mum fell in the driveway and broke her wrist–this only two days after I twisted my ankle there (and we are as unklutzy as you get)–so, another reason to stay. And now there's this Saturday gig keeping me here…

So it looks like I'm not back in my bachelorette box until Monday, at which point I need to conduct my life along very different lines. Eating well isn't hard. I don't buy any junk and when it's not around, I don't think about it. Simple.

Exercise–that's a little harder. Even though I know that yoga is one of the best mood-boosters there is, and a real spirit-calmer and brain-polisher to boot, part of me has become so damn lazy. The person who used to wake at dawn for 1.5 hours of astanga and walked everywhere–an easier and more desirable feat in my last neighborhood than my current–seems to have become quite the couchercizer™. I can't stand it. J (my guy) is desperate to see me back on the mat, as is my therapist, who is one of these new-agey types who can "see energy." When I don't practice, it seems that my energy collapses down around my body like a second-hand parka, whereas when I do, it spreads out to the edges of the room. Sound moronic? I thought so, too. At first. Sort of. But the fact is, I do feel many times more vibrant after practicing than before. And when I compare the interpersonal experiences I have when I've got a practice going versus when I don't–well, there is no comparison. The un-yogic me has the occasional conversation with a stranger, after I've given someone my seat on the train or helped a woman carry a stroller up the steps or something like that. But when I am practicing regularly, I seem to be a magnet for people who have amazing things to say. Private as I am, I thrive on this type of unlooked-for connection. It's one of the reasons we are here on this planet of ours.

So diet–I think I can pull that together. I'm in for a nasty fortnight of sugar detox, but after that, I should be all right.

Yoga? I will try, because it repays my efforts 100-fold.

And writing–well, succeeding with the first two goals will make this tons easier.

Maybe I'll report back in a week. To myself, I mean. Definitely to myself, as I don't think anyone ever reads my blogs. (With one possible exception–to whom I say, "Hello!! How goes the gardening, my friend?!") I say this with a chuckle and absolutely no sense of grievance. I'm an oddun', not quite at home on this site.  And it is kind of nice to be able to come in here and take off all my clothes (tosses shirt into bushes), say what's on the mind (off with the pants), not worry about making too much sense (one sock, two socks) or sounding too smart (goodbye, gruds!). I can just lounge back in the hammock and sing a little tune. La la la. Not bad.

Come Monday, though, I'm off the hammock and back on the path, for the 300th time. I am ready to move forward. I think. Time, perhaps, to be done with the Tribe, too.