Aside from Green Eggs & Ham a thousand times, and the Hemingway novels I was reading my son as bedtime stories when he was an infant, I haven’t managed to read a single book in almost three years. That should be an astounding fact to anyone who has known me for a while, since I have always been a ferocious reader.1
I’m not upset by this, though; I realized a long, long time ago that there will always be more books that I want to read than I will have time on this Earth to read them. Right now I’m more than happy to trade time with my nose in a book for time spent on the floor covered in building blocks or having my abdomen used as a trampoline.
But my wife insisted that I read Happy Yoga by Steve Ross before my 40th birthday, so I did. (I’ve got a chapter to go, but I’ll probably knock that out this evening.) It is a fabulous book, and I highly recommend it. I don’t say that lightly. I have immediately classified it as one of the best I’ve ever read, and it belongs on the shelf alongside the others that I constantly try to convince friends to read: Labyrinths of Reason, Lempriere’s Dictionary, and To Have and Have Not.
And I went to a Level 2/3 class at Maha Yoga this morning. I’ve done P90X Yoga a dozen or so times in the last year, but I haven’t gone to an actual yoga class in a long, long time. It was wonderful.
1 I know most would use voracious instead of ferocious. But I tend to attack books and consume them with something more closely resembling a carnivorous rage than an intellectual thirst for knowledge.
