The Saga of Radioga.

Radio-ga = Radio + Yoga = what this post is about.

Guys! Hey you guys! Guys seriously! Listen!

I did yoga!

Why was this such a huge landmark for me? I don't know. Why was I so damn nervous? Probably because everyone was barefoot and all the employees were svelte and wearing those trendy flowy pants and the studio was actually a converted house and there were a thousand varieties of tea in the kitchen (most of which I could not pronounce) and oh yeah I'm about as limber as the Lincoln Memorial and oh yeah also fat.

Except not! Seriously! Okay maybe still a little. Enough that I am "stepping up" my efforts (as the young kids say these days) because when I hit fifty, I'm throwing the Skinny Soiree. Fancy dress will be mandatory. As will the shots. One shot per pound lost?

But the total's at 36. 36, you guys! That's a lot! I mean, it's close to 40, and 40's a pretty big deal as far as numbers go.

And, for the record, in case anyone out there in the miasmic cosmos of the internet is concerned, no, I am not gagging myself, nor starving myself, nor depriving myself. Pinto and I go on very sweaty walks daily. My refrigerator is packed with what my brother termed "chipmunk food." But I'm very much trying to establish behaviors that I can actually maintain--aka retaining beer as something I can have. And an aversion to the gym, or any kind of activity that requires a specific outfit (scuba diving?). I'm not doing 600 crunches per night, though I did try to do some push-ups last night out of a burning need to be rid of my twangers, which made me realize that I a) have no upper body strength but b) have some sad little muscles that were crying out, "Please! Use us!"

So. I went to yoga.

And it was awesome.

Okay, no, not entirely. It was pretty silly, actually. All the 'align your chakras' and 'breathe away your waste' and the silly windchime music--that shit I could do without. I've encountered far too many people who are so Zen'd out all the time they come across as doped, and I have always been a caffeine and cocaine type. That's just a figure of speech. Really. It is.

But damn, son! It was an hour of crazy stretching! And let it be known that this was not even Yoga 101, this was like, Rudimentary Yoga, this was Yoga you go to when you can't touch your toes. Which I can't, but someday, by god, I will.

And afterward, I felt like about a million bucks. I'm pretty sure my legs acquired an extra inch, at least (and if you've ever seen my legs, they need it). So I'm pretty pleased. Not pleased enough to actually buy a yoga mat yet or to start reading the teachings of the Upanishads, but enough that I think I'll sleep like a baby angel tonight because my bones are content.

So there's the yoga. The radio is this:

It is a sublime form of torture to listen to your voice over and over again for an entire hour, repeating the same humdrum weather report, trying to sound "natural," especially when you are weirdly insecure about your voice. I don't know why--I think everyone has a weird reaction to hearing themselves speak, but I especially cannot stand my own voice, by which I mean the actual sound of my speech, and not, of course, the hilarious witty things I say all the time which my brother Matthew is so jealous of and I don't care because he doesn't read this anyway the fucker.

I spent at least one solid hour--that's 60 entire minutes--non-stop recording a piece of copy for the radio today. Do you know how long that segment was?

A minute.

So I technically made my public radio debut tonight, and it was pretty surreal to stand in my kitchen unloading the dishwasher and hear myself stumble over the word "thunderstorms" from my kitchen radio, but it was also pretty goddamn awesome.

So! I work at the radio now, as the meek little Broadcast Intern. I love radio a whole, whole lot, but my love had a lot more to do with "listen to all this awesome music!" and not "listen to me!!!" So it's a weird transition, going from WHCL, which was all live, all silly, all college, to WHQR, which is all business, all pre-recorded, all professional and shit. In the long and sundry list of adjectives I'd pick to describe myself, "professional" is not one of them. "Hardass" and "go-getter" and "unintentional bitch" maybe, but not "professional."

But if you want a good laugh, and want to hear my foolish NPR voice, tune in tomorrow here at 6:30 p.m. Eastern Time. I snagged the daily half hour of staff-picked music, recorded it today, and it's going to be either the worst or best thing that's ever happened on a radio station on a Thursday evening.

And, again, as I always seem to conclude these posts: things are good. I was a camp counselor for a week and had more fun that I thought reasonably possible without the aid of mind-altering substances. Pinto continues to become hideously oversized, but he can also stay in the house alone all day without destroying anything, and he takes up too much of the bed but I forgive him because he's my dog (and, as my mother pointed out, he kind of saved my soul inadvertently just by being a dog and loving me unconditionally through the Very Bad Times of these past months). I made some badass enchiladas two nights ago. I'm moving downtown in a few weeks. My dad'll be here next week, which means the following: oysters, donuts, BBQ, and more oysters.

As stated previously: Damn, son!