Thus far, my plan has proven so crazy that it seems to be working.
You may recall that on March 1, I implemented Operation: Mysore, whereby I moved out of my room and onto the couch in my apartment. My friend Casey took over my old room. I paid a substantially reduced portion of rent and deposited the remainder into my Mysore fund.
One would think I would by now be a broken man, with a sore back, numerous bed sores, and a bitter disposition at the displacement caused by living in a living room.
Well, one would have thought wrong. Fate's unseen hand conspired to deepen my original roommate's relationship with his girlfriend, and as a result he's been at her house every single night for the last month straight.
This means I've declared eminent domain on his bed, and have accordingly seized it for myself.
And I should add it's quite a bit more comfortable than my original mattress, which now languishes next to my apartment's dumpster, a forlorn and empty king-sized taco shell.
As for practice, well ...
I was skating in the office yesterday because someone had a board. Naturally, I fell on my ass in the hallway and jacked up my wrist. Quitting your job? Leaving for Mysore? Why not hurt yourself?
Practice was a bit tender this morning, but I don't think I've done anything serious to it; tomorrow I'll rest, and it should be fine by Sunday.
It was a wake-up call. That wake up call is this: Do not fuck around.
Pattabhi Jois' last trip to Encinitas was in 2002. A week prior to his visit, I went skating with some friends and sprained holy hell out of my ankle.
As I lay on the ground in agony, I do believe several tears squirted out of my eyes and slid down my face.
Over the last 15 years or so, the only times I can ever remember tears on my face were the last few times I've sprained my ankles. Not because of the pain, but because I've sprained my ankles enough to know when it's serious.
No, the few tears come because I know the weeks and months of misery that are ahead: horrible sleep, no skateboarding, no yoga, no driving, no running, no walking, crutch blisters on the arms, and excruciating pain every time you touch, bump, or breathe on the ankle. It makes working a job a lot of fun, too.
The result of the sprain in 2002: Crutches for two weeks, no yoga for four.
It's safe to say I'm going to avoid a repeat of that incident before I board a plane for India.
Two paychecks left to collect until then.