Exercise in Futility

I've been fighting a cold, and despite my lethargy, I left my decision to work out last night up to the gods. After flipping the nickel I found on my bathroom floor, Thomas Jefferson's head determined that I should, in fact, go to yoga. So, after a long day of walking the city with Mom in tow, daring my fragile immune system to sustain me in a pair of jeans and a boyscout shirt with nothing other than a woolen scarf to keep me warm (December 29th, you say? No sir, surely it must be April. It's a balmy 40 degrees and no matter what my purple fingers say, I'm warm as can be. No jacket necessary today!). Anywho, in the cold damp dark, I march my motivated behind up third avenue to the yoga studio, only to buzz in, reach the top of the stairs and have the instructor tell me they're on a "holiday schedule" and thus not holding the 7pm class. After all, who on earth is available to chaturanga on a Saturday night amidst all the holiday celebrations? Who indeed. And so I turned around, trotted back down the stairs, yoga mat bouncing on my back. I walked back down the street, around the puddles, through the hoards of tourists crowding the famous pizzeria on my corner, and back up the steps to my home. Cold, damp, and now exhausted without the sense of satisfaction that comes with knowing I purged all of the toxins from my aura (right?), Thomas Jefferson turned his back, or rather his historical residence, Monticello, to me as I glared at the tiny coin, now tails-up on the kitchen table. That's the last time I ask TJ for help. **This story was written for the sole purpose of titling it. I promise more substantive blogs in the future. Well, maybe.**