At Wit's Beginning

Having nothing exciting to tell Sarah to catch her attention (maybe I should have told her the company dress code story below), I went with the mundane, sending her the following e-mail yesterday:

I bought popsicles this afternoon from the Winn-Dixie next door to our office building.

I just ate a blue one and now I look like I'm really cold.

My silly amusement here inside the cubicle.

Hope you're having a good day!

Jack

The old "frozen-treat-to-break-the-ice" routine. That got us talking about ice cream treats and how our parents never funded our visits to the ice cream man, including the time having no money that I tried to trade sea shells for ice cream only to learn the hard truth that money talks and sea shells walk.

Without a Nutty Buddy.

Eventually I mentioned that since today was the last night of the class she's teaching that perhaps next Wednesday we could fill that time over dinner. She replied that it was possible but that she had promised a friend that as soon as her Wednesdays freed up that she would go with her to something called a bikram yoga class. "That's the version where the room is heated to about 90 degrees and you do intense stretching and poses for 90 minutes," she wrote. "You work up quite a sweat!" I never would have guessed.

She said she'd let me know.

My thoughts were these:

I think I read somewhere that bikram yoga's inventor was just some guy too cheap to air condition his studio. "No, no! It's SUPPOSED to be this warm in here!"

But I understand. Who wouldn't prefer 90 minutes in an overheated room full of sweaty people to dinner with me?

;-]

I haven't sent it to her. Should I? What will she make of it?