Speaking AGAIN of luxury, I sat in a Porsche for the first time in my life today.

I have half a mind to make up a “100 things to do before I die” list, and put it up there, just so I can have the pleasure of checking it off. Check!

Somewhere along the way, I had to confess that I didn’t know the way to our destination. The Porsche Owner gasped at my blatant ignorance.

I replied, “Well, but I’ve never had to drive there myself.”

He tsked.

I added, to my own detriment, “Anyway I like to be driven.”

For that, that’s probably the last time I’ll get to sit in his car. Awww. Well. But at least…check!

I read in a book once, that to live out one’s passion fully was a luxury.

It was a book that described in excruciatingly realistic detail the narrator’s pining for her lover. It got me both embarrassed for her, and jealous.

Do you know how it feels?

Where “meaning” is defined as “relevance to him.” Sufficient autopilot instincts ensure that life goes on; there need not be any major disruption to work. One does not neglect one’s duties, but they were relegated to being objects of indifference - indifference permeates all aspects of life, except where relevant to him.

When he calls, and plans are made to meet, every remaining day to the scheduled date becomes a journey of growing obsession. Should I wear a new dress? But it would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? But it seems almost disrespectful to have him see me in something he has seen before. Would he notice? Should I hope that he notices?

Reading the daily horoscope becomes a habit - hoping to synchronise our “destiny” on a day-to-day basis. Anything could be a sign. The taxi took me by our favourite restaurant today - good sign. I spilled coffee on the shirt he gave me - bad sign. Every relationship I read/hear about teaches me something about us, about our relationship.

When I see a good show on television, I wonder if he is watching the same. Wonder if he laughs at the same punchlines. When he travels, I imagine what he might be doing. “He is in a taxi stuck in traffic.” “He is at the conference centre, chatting with a beautiful woman during coffee break.” “He is reading in his hotel bed now, in his tatty checkered pyjamas pants.”

It is a luxury, feeling and fueling this passion. Nowadays, we simply do not indulge in such sweet (torturous) thoughts anymore. Perhaps because we have no time and there are too many distractions. And more importantly, because we think we really ought to play it cool. Obsession is silly. I don’t need him. I don’t want him.

But in fact, admit it. You do.

I’m in a really good mood today. In reflex to the horrible past week.

Random moments of acute happiness in the past week:

(1) I found an apple in my cubicle - one of those I brought to work but forgot to eat. It must have been some time though, cos the fruit of the week has been peaches.

(2) Jugs and jugs of margaritas at Cafe Iguana.

(3) Someone told me, “I miss you!”

(4) Mom says we can have fried chicken this Sunday.

(5) Getting through with that project causing me all the heartache and heart burn.

(6) A goodlooking passer-by. Eye candy delight!

I’ve had a pretty hellish week at work. A few things I’ve learnt in this past week:

(1) Where there are only 24 hours in a day, luxuries like taking time off to think in a bus, hot yoga, pondering about my future boyfriend, sleeping and so on are well, luxuries.

(2) I am fully capable of cussing in front of young impressionable junior officers.

(3) I am not capable of pulling all-nighters anymore.

(4) Everything looks easy only on hindsight.

(5) “Sure, no worries!” is easy to say but difficult to mean.

(6) When all else fails, alcohol is the answer.

Yesterday, I tried the Hot Yoga class at my new gym. Essentially yoga in a room of hot air.

To a certain extent, it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. The heat was not as oppressive as I thought it would be, and was in fact quite comfortable. It helped me sweat buckets. Sweating is rather liberating, don’t you think? Everyone looks horrible when they sweat. No need to be pretentious about it. We’re all slick and wet like pigs in the rain.

On the other hand, I also remember thinking halfway through the class, “I can’t do this ohmygod I want to kill someone this is too blardy hard.”

For a large proportion of the poses, I found myself trembling, just to hold the pose in the requisite “five” deep breaths. “Five” is in inverted commas because the instructor is a liar. He goes, “Five deep breaths, through your nose please, not your mouth. Five….four….three….two more….one more..just one…you can feel the muscle stretching that’s very good you’re doing so well good job everyone…take one more deep breath…………..okay you can relax.” C’mon. Tha’s not five deep breaths worth. He stretches the “last” count to at least fifty. If not a gazillion. It’d might as well be a gazillion, especially when muscles are shaking and you feel like you’re about to pee in your yoga pants. Or fart.

I also think he requires us to breathe through our noses instead of mouths so that we learn to keep our mouths shut and do not accidentally let slip an avalanche of expletives.

I’ve not had muscles tremble under my weight for a long time. The last time I had these uncontrollable shakes from strain was probably the last fitness assessment test I took as a schoolgirl, hanging from a pull-up bar, underarms a-flapping. But these yoga poses…I don’t know if it was the heat that put extra stress on my muscles, but I never felt so intensely every single fibre in my legs squealing out in silent pain.

Presumably it is good that I am still aching right now.

Every once in a while, I feel my thighs/ankles/abs/lower back clench, and I remember the pain of the Chair/Dog/Origami position, and think, I can hardly hold my own body up. Maybe I should try to lose some weight. “

And then I put the cookie back.

Such a good girl I am.