Yogaman

The Dude and I did yoga together last night. I've been on his case to, basically, live better. No more smoking. Less canabis and less fast food. More vegetables. Going to the doctor and the dentist. See, this is why married men live longer. This is not unique to me. This is what women tend to do, mostly I think because most men (the straight ones anyway) left to their own devices often shrug off things like regular check-ups, and don't mind putting too much of the wrong stuff in their bodies all the time: booze, fried food, tobacco and/or the wacky weed.

I think what ultimately got me to push the yoga, though, was the constant aching over a sore shoulder, his stiff muscles from work, and would I please massage him. He's good at asking, too. The big eyes that roll into a painful squint as he moans and starts to rub his own shoulders with a grimace.

But I am no trained masseuse, and if he's really in that bad of shape (And not just angling for massages the way Smokey angles for wet food, howling pitifully for it when there's dry food right in front of him), then a few haphazard backrubs from me isn't going to do anything.

So we went together to this little place down the street. And it was fun and relaxing. And it occurs to me that other than movies, I've never really had a shared hobby or anything with a boyfriend before. It was nice. We left feeling loosened up and in a good mood. I'm also going to take Pilates there as well.

I really wish I took this much of an interest in health five years ago. But then five years ago I wasn't getting gray hairs, or fine lines. May sound ridiculous, but until I saw those first signs of aging, I hadn't really considered I wouldn't stay young forever. My 20s have flown by way too fast.

I have a shower to attend tomorrow. I hope there will be cake.