the little yuppie that could

I am, in equal parts, appalled and amused that I spent my day readying my five-year-old for her yoga lesson at our club.  Did she have a mat?  Yoga pants (or at least adorable leggings)?  Should I braid her hair so it didn't fall into her face when she learned down dog?  HAVE I BECOME *THAT* PERSON?! (no, no, no Escalade, no botox in my forehead, no restalayne in my lips...not yet...)

How did this happen?

Ten years ago, I lived in a BIK (that would be bathtub in kitchen, for those people who can see the convenience of scrambling eggs while conditioning their hair) apartment with mice, flying cockroaches, and rats so big, you could identify their GENDER (yes, as they ran away hissing, I could see their b*lls, they were THAT BIG).  I often had to choose between buying cigarettes and food (cigarettes won, hands down every time), and I was somehow the envy of all my friends, despite the fact that my toilet was in the only thing that could ostensibly pass for a closet...because my apartment was rent controlled.

And today it was children's yoga at the clubhouse.

And here she is...may she never see the balls of an escaping rat as it curses her with a view of its rat man parts.

Pauline says done is better than perfect, which is why I've started with this absurd entry.  Maybe it will loosen my tongue (like THAT needs to happen!) or brain, or fingers, or jostle something loose...

Off to watch some CSI and wish I could eat a pound of pistachios.