I'm a yogini with a knock-off lulu collection and the flexibility of an old dame treeplanter. I'm undissuaded, however. I do that hot, mirror-gazing, Beverly Hills yoga next to girl-pretzels and thick-necked linebacker-types, fitting somewhere in the middle. The kind where you sweat a litre into your towel. The kind, I've been told during class, that cures--you won't believe this--everything from bad gas to gayness (I'm not kidding) to the human need for sleep. Despite making virtually no sense to my brain, it seems to be working for my knees. I'm sort of addicted.

Benign addictions can be endearing. My mother has systems--worth another blog entry entirely. I've got this friend who can't talk on the phone or kitchen-chat with me until she has a hot beverage in her hands. I've got this other friend whose cell phone bill is so giant all numbers dialed on her phone shunt directly to Rogers Accounts. Q-tips. Lip balm. Eye drops, even.

I also have this thing for coffee. The guy and I each own these killer stovetop rigs--superblasters, basically--that squirt out espresso the consistency of used motor oil, complete with the rainbow swirls. When we overdose together we become Beavis and Butthead, especially when set loose in public.