I’m off to work pumped full of pain blockers, anti-inflammatories, antihistamines and steroidal inhalants

... and an admonition to check for signs of bleeding kidneys.

My headache pain is only slightly better—and probably masked by all the aforementioned pharmaceuticals—and bending over to put on my socks this morning was one step closer to NOT making me pass out.

Thanks for all your kind words and expressions of concern and support. And to those of you who suggested yoga: I dare you to even THINK about doing downward dog with a Richter-scale sinus headache. But you’re not wrong that I should probably get back into doing yoga. Just not in the foreseeable future where my head might explode and I might die of urethral exsanguination.

Good night!

So how does this work?

Do I pick one from each column or do I get to mix and match any three like on the Denny's value menu? Or is this one of those brain teasers where I have to re-organize the list so the first letter of every line spells a common phrase or a popular song title? Or maybe I have to clear the board -- which automatically disqualifies me because I refuse to be yoga pants as a matter of principle. They should really pass out leaflets with the rules spelled out clearly or nobody's going to play ... which means nobody will ever win Eternal Damnation.

#NotVeryIntelligentlyDesigned

Fighting the benefits of yoga one suppressed giggle at a time.

Our yoga class always ends with the instructor sitting in front of us in the lotus position bathed messiah-like in a warm spotlight. We all take a moment to collectively ponder, and then he says namaste, we say it back and class is over.

Bill and I weren't sure what namaste means, so he looked it up and found this definition: "I honor the place in you where Spirit lives. I honor the place in you which is of Love, of Truth, of Light, of Peace, when you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, then we are One."

Of course, now Bill always says namaste, motherfucker--which undermines my well-earned Being One at the end of class.

Today, as the instructor was gently reminding us that yoga isn't a competition and that we should just hold our poses where they're comfortable and focus on our breathing, he said, "If you can't extend your leg all the way in this pose, it doesn't mean you're a bad person, and it doesn't mean you're bad at yoga."

I started laughing as I was struggling to straighten my front leg, hold my arms out like some injured heron, stare contemplatively at my chosen spot on the floor and float my other leg in its position of serenity.

I hear next week we'll start class with a midget joke.

J. the dreamy dance captain for The Lion King didn't come to yoga today. Or last week. So it's been two weeks since our mini lunch date where we realized our lustful interest was kind of mutual. Sigh. At least I'm getting in a more focused yoga workout without him bending and stretching his lithe dancer body so distractingly on the mat next to mine.

Speaking of The Lion King, here's some interesting babboon news.