Recovery

This is the end of "hell week" for me, as the first week of smoking cessation is sometimes called, and I've got more than one thing to celebrate.

I found a terrific new yoga class very close to my home yesterday, at a ritzy spa for rich people which is tucked away in a cul-de-sac a couple miles from the tin shack. And yet, as chi-chi as this place is, for locals just showing up just for yoga, it's five bucks. Half the people in retreat there at any given time are from New York City; the other half are from San Francisco. There are also some from Oregon and other stylish places, and I know that makes more than 100 percent, but you know what I mean.

Any time you get a chance to take an hour-and-a-half yoga class taught by a pro for five bucks, take it. If you're at all interested in pursuing the discipline, that is.

Geoff is a youngish (early-to-mid thirties I'd say) yogi from San Francisco who's now teaching my other yoga teacher. He's hard core and somewhat humorless, although he fancies himself a terrific wit. Yesterday he had us doing standing poses for an hour, some of which imparted to targeted muscle groups what I call "the burn," and some of which had the middle-aged ladies in the room hollering for mercy. It was a good session.

A young lady of my long acquaintance who is in the process of slowly retiring from performing is also continuing her yoga studies under the high-regarded Gary Kraftsow (that's him in the picture), with the aim of transitioning into instructorship. So it looks to me as if perfecting the pose is going to be more than a passing fancy, and indeed is becoming a lifetime pursuit and major facet of our existence here in the far-flung neighborhood of those I love and care for.