Yug. I'm incontinent. Not all the time of course, not that bad and it's not a medical condition that requires intervention—just a royal pain. Half of my preparation for 3 weeks in India involved getting my Visa, how to minimize luggage and arguing over whether I was in business class for one of the four legs of the trip. (I wasn't.) The other half was spent imagining crapping myself or having to reach for my groin in public. In a hotel lobby. Don't talk to me about kegels. Fucking kegels are mythology. I am firmly convinced that biofeedback is the answer and I will tell you why. During the many iterations of daily activities, some things become habitual—like walking over to the store, or driving to a rehearsal and then pulling up to the house afterward. Both of these particular activities involve going up to the front door don't they? And guess what happens then? 5 or 10 minutes pre-arrival I'm fine; suddenly the appearance of the entrance beyond which lies the bathroom says to my birdie brain ooh, wouldn't you like to pee now. The antidote I’m practicing is to focus on distraction like a color or an object. This is a work in progress. ***** Having survived India with zero intestinal issues, a lot of rice & chapatti & idli & mango lassi. Hallelujah no leakage, something about returning to the scene of my previous food poisoning/diverticulitis scare felt like I should spit over my shoulder or maybe hang some garlic or something, but resuming my old dietary habits? Here we are though; jet lag is waning, got our new furnace with its fancy thermostat app. It's very cold and rainy out, so cocoon! Tonight, in addition to reaching the 200th episode of ER, I had popcorn for dinner. I did finally walk in the rain over to Trader Joe's. I refuse to take the car, but one of the problems with going on extended trips is that you empty out your refrigerator and that's what I did so, between a lot of rain and feeling somewhat food fearful, the cupboard remained pretty bare except for granola bars. Kind of had to force myself to make those decisions, get back on the horse. (I brought back two lovely silk salwar kameez tunics from Jodhpur. If that's not an incentive to keep portion controls in place I don't know what it is.) However here's the rub: I arrived back in the US around 2:00 in the afternoon on Sunday. 7:30 Monday was the first rehearsal with the present (not tour) choir. Despite all of my efforts and all of the helpful paraphernalia I took with me including paper music, and a tablet with electronic versions and MP3 files for upcoming gigs, I spent 99% of my time neither thinking about nor looking at new gig music. The whole trip. I suppose I could cut myself some slack because in a volunteer situation most people would say you know what? You can be one of 60 singers and you will be the only person who knows whether or not you hit that G above the staff or whether you fudged it. I mean I'm singing soprano, and there's a couple of measures in the piece we're doing coming right up that feature a little slap on a high C. I’m not going to do that. I don’t need to. Technically though, I never did actually own high C—although I did do an audition once that ended on the ole money note and I pretty much nailed it so there's that. But they used to say if you don't have at least a third above a note you don't own it. So no, I here I am in the vicinity of that G but depends on the music. It's a strictly Case by case basis. More problematic is that it was wonderful being back in this particular group, even jet lagged and feeling a little guilty. Although I only missed two rehearsals. Confounding that I appear to be wrestling again. On the one side, there's my dad: resolute fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants operator both in practical life and general philosophy. On the other side my mother: never met a book she didn't want to mark up and analyze. She actually admitted one time that she would not turn the page of a book until she was satisfied that she had absorbed everything on the page she was reading. That's a little OCD or something. And French school system, of course. Anyway I think my Reptilian Brain knows what I should be doing and my conscious self is completely aware of the existence of this lassitude. How the hell else could you arrive at 200 episodes? Although to be fair you do get the chance to log an insane number of guest appearances by familiar actors some of whom are A-list now. Between miserable weather and subtle resistance, it's way too easy to just glide through each day. Getting a little sense of attraction to an idea for some food, a bit of hunger pang in the middle of an episode. Just close the laptop, go down to the kitchen and make it happen. Bring it back upstairs, it could be a bowl of grape nuts with some cashews and almonds and blueberries and maybe some cranberries, and sometimes milk and sometimes kefir, or some roasted yam, but it's all good. Leftover black rice & lentils & barley steamed in apple/carrot/celery/kale cold pressed juice (really). And a weird thing occurs. The old messages and judgments, training or pressures, why aren't you working, fade away. I'm just me.