Jetting down the refreshingly empty 210, I tried to lift my heart toward the sky, tuck in the tummy and grip the steering wheel with two hands -- allowing the lower back to straighten and muscles from finger-tips to pink-painted-toes to guide me home.
One class and I'm an addict.
Turning onto Second Avenue, I slowed down for a white-clad jogger darting early-evening sprinklers. A few blocks ahead, Mr. Dad was playing catch in the front yard with Little Miss and Jr. And rounding the corner to my tree-lined street, I waved to the obsessive-garage-sale-guy, no doubt contemplating what treasures to part with on Saturday morning.
Picture perfect? Perhaps. But definitely a magical slice of Americana, glittering in the 75-degree dusk.
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