I have this weird habit…okay, personality flaw, of deciding what something is when I really don’t have a clue. “Oh, you’re feet hurt and you’re limping? You have gout, get some allopurinol.” Or, “I know exactly what that leaf is, it’s from a type of birch, I am positive, no need to look it up, really.” Dear reader, consider yourself warned.

I have been wanting for years, to try yoga. I knew all about yoga even though I hadn’t really tried it. I knew it was a lovely way to escape the cares of the day, stretching and chatting with friends, making plans for dinner while relaxing my muscles.

I am in my fourth month of twisting, turning, and torturing myself, and I can tell you, I have not not made any dinner plans or any friends. Also, every single time I go, I feel as if I am going to be sick half way through. My muscles scream, “No more inverted happy baby, no more low plank, and please, for God’s sake, no more downward facing dog.” When the instructor asked us to sit on our legs which were already criss-crossed behind us, all blood flow ended and I went into a happy baby coma.

When I was in college, I made a decision to some day write a book. I also decided writing a book was like a vacation. I pictured myself toting my legal pad to cafes and bars, jotting down witticisms and stories while imbibing well made espresso and glasses of red wine. Everyone does it, it’s easy; I knew. Just like I knew the firemen were on my roof for a safety inspection (I couldn’t fathom a creosote fire). I also couldn’t fathom what it took to produce The Color Purple.

I am a long way from college, and I am in deep in my current project. The Color Purple is as far away as the bottom rung of the rainbow currently hanging over Casco Bay. But I do know some things never change. And if I can just get a few nights with my journal over at Mama’s Crow Bar, I can have this novel sewed up and ready for print before the next happy baby coma comes on.

What tales do you tell yourself?