ONE

Regular readers may remember Janice from the comments section. Jan is my soul sister, best-est buddy, college roommate, copy editor (that's very important) and general Gal Friday. This is a story Jan tells about her cat, Nigel, rest his soul.

Nigel, who would've worn smoking jackets and spats if they only made them in his size, had psychosomatic sweating issues. Yes, psychosomatic sweating issues. Nigel was afraid of the vet. Of course, had you asked Nigel if he was afraid of the vet, he would have looked at you disdainfully, denied it and then lit a long, thin cigarette with a shaky, sweaty paw - if only he had thumbs.

When Nigel was loaded into his carrier for a vet trip, spitting and fighting and making ungodly noises all the way, his paws would begin to sweat. His little pads would became spigots of kitty sweat until finally, when let out of his carrier onto the metal examining table, he would loose all traction and go careening head first into the wall.

The whole thing was very undignified. And very, very funny. Particularly, I imagine, in person.

Or rather, it used to be.

Today, was my first yoga class. Today, I learned, my paws sweat. My front paws, my back paws. And you try doing downward dog (hands and feet on the floor, butt in the air in a V formation) when your paws want nothing better than to slide out from under you like a golden retriever on rollerskates. I was hanging on by my fingernails and a prayer. And if given half a chance, I might have killed the girl next to me for the giant bath towel she'd thought to lay over her mat.

I tried to take "cleansing breaths" while trying even harder not to fall flat on my face and break my nose. But mostly, I thought of Nigel.

Sorry about the laughs, buddy. I didn't understand.

TWO

Today, I did a shoulder stand. And just as I was thinking that I was clearly a natural at this yoga-stuff, that there should be some kind of first-timer award for this, I looked over and watched the woman diagonal to me go up into a shoulder stand and then spread her legs into a mid-air split. I nearly fell over. Does this woman have no pelvic bone? Are her legs not actually attached to her body? What sort of black magic is this? I demand an inquest!

I slouched out of the room, sweaty and dragging my mat behind me to the front desk.

"I want to buy a pass," I said to the freakishly attractive, zen-like person (who is probably an actor waiting for his agent to call) behind the front desk.

"For how many sessions?" he asked.

"As many as it takes to do that," I said, pointing.

He looked at her and then at me. His face got worried. "I'm afraid the most I can sell you is twenty at a time. But you can buy more when it runs out."

I gave him my credit card.