You Appear To Be My Dues To Pay.

I bought a yoga mat like six years ago and I can confidently say that in those six years, I've probably taken it out of the closet maybe ten times. Out of those ten times, I've probably used it for it's intended purposes maybe two or three. The rest of the time I normally throw it on the floor with every intention of doing something yogatastic and instead get distracted by a surgery on the Discovery Health channel and I'll sit cross-legged on it until my ass falls asleep, convincing myself that it's necessary for me to watch yet another cleft palate reconstruction or one more endoscopic brow lift.

Before I put the mat back up, I'll do a quick test to confirm that I can still bend over and put my hands on the floor. Then I'll roll it into it's little carrying case and throw it back in the catch-all closet, ready for the next time I think I'm going to make an attempt at being skinny.

But last night I was bored to tears, bored like I was at the age of twelve and sent to tennis camp for some aerobic activity and outdoor fun. Though if I'm honest the tennis camp debacle was a combination of boredom and outright annoyance, expressed to the full extent of my pre-teen abilities by sitting with my back against the fence and deliberately ignoring the instructor when she used her faux-enthusiasm to encourage me to get off my ass and try it already, I might even like it.

I did not like that woman very much.

In my boredom I somehow found myself driving to the supercenter across town with no list of groceries and no need for batteries or light bulbs or lint roller refills. It was odd walking in the store like that, with just a total lack of ambition or designated plan of action. I always have lists. Always. Right now I have a post-it note list on my laptop at work, waiting for me to walk in on Monday and know exactly what I need to do before eight. I have a list of things I need to do, letters I need to write, harassing emails I need to compose, friends I need to call. And somehow I still remain neurotic enough to forget to pay my water bill or deposit money in my bank account.

So I wondered around the store for a bit, stopping off in cosmetics and throwing random products in my buggy, products that claim to make my curls soft and frizz-free, another that promises to help straighten wavy hair. (To be used separately, obviously.) Then I was back in electronics, perusing the aisles of music and thinking how I have no idea who Ne-Yo or Chingy or Cheyenne Kimball are, but they're all featured prominently on the displays.

Then it was off to DVD's and I couldn't find a single thing that I wanted, because I don't buy DVD's that I can rent for two dollars at Movie Xchange and throw in the return box when I'm done watching them. But as I was walking down the last aisle a picture of an impossibly fit woman caught my eye and before I knew what I was doing, I'd picked up the double disc set of ab and arm and butt and leg and probably pinkie toe exercises and thrown it in the buggy, right next to the shiny green bottles of hair product. Then I marched over to sporting goods and threw in two ten-pound weights, just because whatever I was high on must taken over the properly functioning part of my brain. I've never purchased weights before, never had the desire to, simply because for my entire childhood my father kept a set of ancient brown weights on the fireplace and it drove my mother absolutely insane that the only time those things got used were, um, never. Their entire purpose in life was to collect dust and dog hair and cat fur.

As I was walking out to my car, however, I think I came a little to my senses. The bag with the weights was heavy. Like, for real heavy. And I was going to do what with these exactly? OH MY GOD I'M TURNING INTO MY FATHER. Next thing you know I'll keep stacks of engineering magazines by my chair as an homage to fire hazards everywhere.

Oh well, at least I'll get more productive with a hammer. Maybe even use some nails.

This morning I got up because some asshole was knocking on my neighbors door yelling JOHN! bam bam bam JOOOOHN! I could have helped the guy by politely pointing out that JOHN! is not home, see how there are no cars in the driveway? No car equals no JOHN! so please go home and have a nice burrito. But instead I opened my back door and anonymously yelled out "SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I'M GOING TO CUT YOU." And then I quickly shut my door and closed all my curtains, because I'm a little crazy but I'm not actually stupid.

Since I was up, I decided it was time to bring out the old blue yoga mat and pop one of my new get-yourself-skinny exercise DVD's. I grabbed a glass of water because, though it's been a while since I've deliberately made myself sweat, I hear it's good to keep hydrated while bouncing around your living room.

After fifteen minutes of jumping jacks and leg lifts and strange butt-lifting abdominal crunches, I lay panting on my blue yoga mat, thinking these people are smoking something illegal to think I can get my ass off the floor, much less do one more leg swirly kick thing.

And then I turned my head and got an in-depth look at the dust bunnies under my couch and I dragged myself off the floor to add Sweep Under Couch to my to-do list.