Stretch

Remember when stretching was the first act of the day—even before the opening of eyes? The day held off, waiting for approbation from the gentle, lazy unfolding—extending—of bones, muscle, and sinew to their furthest point. It would start in the core—a body’s center. Outward, outward, ripples triggering the morning’s call to each cell; a shock of oxygen yawns energy to each particle. Stretched and limber, the exercises of day strengthened, a comfortable burn signaling growth.

Headline: stretching is killed by alarm clock sometime early Friday morning. The particular culprit responsible is not being charged; society instead ruling on the side efficiency, speed, and the shortest distance from point A to B. Stretching is a luxury. Condolences are not offered to the family—coffee and morning paper, afternoon cat nap, sporadic trips to the park—beware, you’re next.

We’re sore. This is not natural. It should start slow—walking, jogging before running. Always stretching. Instead, our zealous pursuit into the fray, the melee of pre-class traffic, unfinished assignments, stairs, reminds us only to forget. Our mind seizes, protesting the onslaught. Each step gets harder, each motion testament of the disrepair we allow ourselves. We can do better. We should do better. The journey from A to B tastes better with cookies and milk, smells better with freshly mown grass, looks better with a hint of autumn. What’s the excuse?

Pithy considers alternate methods of exercise, ways to accomplish both the hot chocolate and the algebra. Perhaps it should involve an invention of some sort—we could use newspaper, rubber bands, tape, and glue. It would look cool when we were done. We would test it on you, internets. It would be awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we would patent it and retire to our days of stretching and bare feet. Mission accomplished!

While we purchase supplies and submit our building project to review and revision, we hope that readers maybe find a little moment to stretch their own muscles—maybe with a good book, an old friend over garden salad, wine and cheese, a quiet moment in the sun—maybe even here. If it doesn’t afford you a full yoga stretch, maybe at least a brief minute to catch your breath. We hope so. We won’t look, take your time.