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Doing It Wrong

Lying here on my back, I’m already pretty sure I’m doing it wrong. The shower tile is a lot colder and not-conducive-to-lying-upon than I would have thought.


This feels wrong. It has to be wrong. There’s no way I’m not doing this wrong.


As most things do, it all started with Batman.


I feel like an idiot. My feet are going numb.


In all honesty, I had no idea just how difficult it is to scoot yourself flush to the wall, while lying on your back, so your legs are straight against the wall, from heel to ass.


Let me explain.


About twenty odd years ago, I was flipping through the bazillion cable channels, when my eye caught something quite curious on the Home Shopping Network. It was the cover of a comic book, depicting Batman being broken in half over the knee of one very large dude. Upon further investigation, which consisted of asking a guy in my dorm, I was set upon the path to discover a prolonged and often meandering story arc spanning several months.


Anyhow, during the he’s-totally-gonna-get-better-because-he’s-friggin’-Batman period of the epic tale, I read mention of some sort of restorative yoga wherein something like an hour equated to a full night’s sleep.


Suspect that this was Falsehood of the Grandest Degree, my metaphorical craw had been stuck with some equally metaphorical but otherwise undefined noun of no importance. With a clenched fist of righteous indignation held high, I sprang from my chair to proclaim “I SAY NAY!”    


So, I decided to wait 20 years and look it up on Google. Actually, I happened to be in the car when I thought about it, attempting maximum velocity. So, I asked Siri.


Siri was no help.


Siri is often no help.


Later, in the privacy of my own home, I engaged the Interweb. Much to my surprise and delight, Google bestowed upon me slightest, single spark of possibility.


[Translation: I believed it fully and immediately, without exception or qualification.]


I soldiered on, eventually finding a multi-angle  video of a hip blonde chick in fashionable workout apparel tight enough to teeter upon the borderline of the ‘other’ type of video that may be found on the Internet.


By what I heard, that is.


From people who aren’t me.


In passing.


Ahem. Ms. Blonde Trendypants had no doubt been entrusted with the ancient and sacred teachings of some sort of isolated, mountain-dwelling settlement likely partial to robes.


I studied closely.


And that is how I managed to arrange myself into the odd and immobile position from which I began this story. Except, in the time I’ve taken to tell you this story, Moose has decided to sit on my arm- delicately, like a hen on an egg.


And I can’t feel my legs.


Perhaps some ritualistic wisdom is best left in the hands of isolated, secret societies.


And Batman.

The Philosophically Pessimistic End of Childhood