Dichroic Reflections

confessions and headstands

True confession time:

I did not go to practice today. One problem with having IBS is that stress (read:Coach DI) is a major contributor, and thus I woke up at 3:50 AM, a mere twenty minutes before the alarm was set to drag me back in the land of the semi-coherent, with dinner clamoring in my gut. I’m not afraid of facing DI; I am afraid of being attacked by my own intestines somewhere in the middle of a race piece in the middle of a lake in the middle of practice.

T went, anyway, so at least DI had to encounter one of us. I think that he’s already dealt with the concept that not everyone worships him, anyway; T says that yesterday at practice, it was decided to appoint boat captains to deal with DI. This is suppose to enhance communication. I’m not too sure how adding an extra layer (like talking to God through a priest) would aid communication, but I wasn’t there so can’t really complain.

I enjoyed my semi-leisurely morning so much that it was obvious I needed it. Unfortunately, I realized, a bit too late, that I was supposed to pick up forms to enter me in the Grand Canyon State Games (sort of Arizona’s own little Olympics) today. The deadline is looming, but I think I can fill them out Tuesday.

The other advantage is that without practice, I get to both sleep an extra hour and get to work early. More time in the morning let me finally find my spare tea infuser, so I could take it to work with the Republic of Tea Lemon WinterGreen* I bought the other day. Getting to work early is also a Good Thing, since I need to leave early to catch a plane to Nashville.

Everyone on our mutual list who has met her tells me I will greatly enjoy meeting Mechaieh, including Phelps, who is, I think, the only person to have encountered both of us in the flesh. I’m inclined to believe them. We had other reasons for going, of course; Nashville sounds like an interesting place and neither of us had been there. But it was Mechaieh’s presence that tipped the balance to Nashville for me, instead of say, St. Louis (where we want to tour the Cessna plant) or Seattle (which T says would be better in midsummer). Too bad I have no burning desire to visit Nebraska; I would like to meet Evilena, whom I sort of think of as the third volume of the D-land trilogy. (Or the third leg of a tripod, which is more egalitarian, but I rather like the book analogy.)

In case Mechaieh reads this, I should point out that neither of us is a good enough housekeeper to notice other people’s dustbunnies. And Phelps can vouch that while I am known to do headstands in living rooms, they’re controlled enough that I don’t cause damage on the way down. (Anyhow, that’s less likely without a ten-year-old around. I was just showing her how, I swear.)