and i don't even have to walk to the mailbox

If my great-grandmother, at the tender age of 16, could find the gumption to board a boat from Ireland for the new world, why can't I, a full-grown adult with all the advantages she never had, find the initiative to drive myself the ten minutes it would take to get my steadily expanding backside to yoga?

With all the energy and kvetching I put into moaning about getting there, you'd think the studio was, in fact, located on the other side of an ocean.

An ocean that I had to swim.

Through oil-slick waters.

In a sand paper bathing suit.

On a Monday.

And before I've had my coffee even.

Perhaps, if like her, I didn't have ready access to food, I'd feel more of an incentive to work toward achieving my goal of better health and wellness. Starting probably, with the purchase of a much-needed potato for dinner.

Then again, if I had less access to food (and certainly potatoes), my backside wouldn't be a problem and the whole yoga thing would be moot.

How horribly elitist is it of me, that I occasionally wish I lived in a time when life itself was difficult enough that one couldn't fathom actually manufacturing challenges to make it fulfilling?

How wrong is it, that one of the greatest trials in my day is remembering to mail in my latest Netflix?

Yeah.

Think about it.

Though seriously? I've got to remember tomorrow.

Because, dude, I can't wait.

Arrested Development is totally on its way.

And I so wish I were kidding.