The ‘Dredge Report

My life in Portland feels decadent and overly precious. Everything consists of making my life easier and happier, or make my roommates’ lives easier and happier. I give K. a ride to work, I make green chicken masala for RV and I, I replenish our wine cellar (read: our ten-bottle wine rack), I bake banana bread for the household. RV and I throw K. a party that goes until 5 a.m., with jello shots in a rainbow of delicious colors. I do everyone’s dishes, seemingly all the time. For myself, I go to yoga and the gym. I meet B. and S. at the Lompoc for Miser Monday or a game of Scattergories. I try not to yell at Pony as often as I want to. I drag RV to wine tastings at Everyday Wine; I make salads from the heirloom tomatoes that our cute-as-pie neighbors hand us over the fence. I’ve been to more great shows in the past month than I went to in a year in Boston.  We brunch and sit on the porch and drink while we watch Intervention on Monday nights. I go to bed at a reasonable hour. Yesterday afternoon I made jasmine tea and caught up on my correspondence. I read Gourmet and books about wine. I don’t even smirk at the hippies on Alberta St. anymore; I think to myself, “How adorable!”

And tonight, the indulgence to end all indulgences. Exhale, the green yoga studio two blocks down from us, hosts “Yoga Nidra” on Monday nights. For $12 ($10 if you bike or walk there), the studio owner leads you through an hour of motionless meditation—i.e., naptime for stressed out adults. Except that I’m not stressed out.

It’s ridiculous, really, to be feeling this content.