I resist the urge to pull on some cotton Hanes and faded sweats to match my mood.
I do it for the blog.
I open my top drawer and go for the lace. I dig around until I find some curve-hugging yoga pants and an old favorite party shirt that has been relegated to sexy lounge wear status. It’s velvety, blue and still has some breast clinging capacity.
When I stumble into the kitchen, my man has his coffee dripping and my green tea steeping. We carry them out on the front porch to wake up with the sky.
The morning air is sweet and unseasonably warm, one last breath of Indian summer. When the sun rises, too yellow and bright, we retreat into our living room to stretch.
In the first few years of our relationship, we never made it very far with our yoga practice. There was something about my hips pushing up and back into downward dog. Our practice would go from spiritual to carnal in one slow, mutual exhalation.
We’ve been married seven years now and recreating hard on this planet for over forty. The need to stretch our bodies often over rides our need to orgasm them, especially on a Monday morning when we are trying to sneak in a hike before work.
We stay on task and get through twenty minutes of stretching and then move into some sit ups. After a set of fifty I am hot, so I pull off my shirt and yoga pants. I must admit I’m pretty pleased with myself when I look down my torso and see a leopard-spotted thong and a lacey black bra. I roll over and knock out a set of push ups before stretching my hips towards my heels for child’s pose.
As my man nuzzles my neck, I remember images from our Bliss viewing the night before. I can tell by the long, slow strokes across my leopard spots that he is too.
I end up with rug burns for the first time in years.
I think this blog is working.