I’m off somewhere in the world, to get better at yoga, to get better at me.
The flight airlifted me out of my life at midnight, and I’m still in the sky. Whoever said time flies wasn’t in a long haul plane at the time.
I said no to a cocktail on takeoff, and made one of my own instead – one lorazepam, two melatonin. If I did that every night after work I’d lead an extraordinarily relaxed life, but it possibly wouldn’t have much in it.
My first thought when I came out of my coma was one of great clarity. I didn’t pack any yoga clothes.
You would think this would have been a high priority for me, heading off as I was on a yoga holiday. You’ll be pleased to hear I did pack my own mat, and some underwear and a few assorted other things that are probably completely wrong for where I’m going.
I’m going to have to be chipper about this, and let the locals bum fuck me with Lululemon pride. Or they might talk me into something made from hemp, some wildly patterned tights for my wildly abundant thighs.
On the bright side, I do have a new season Prada dress sitting obediently at my feet. It’s fresh off the runway in Europe, fresh out of Queen Street Prada, fresh out of the Collection Point confessional at the airport, fresh out of my credit card and not yet out of it’s tissue.
The combination of these two events means I won’t have much rupiah to splash about for the next two weeks but as it’s inner wealth I’m seeking, I can ooom with that.