I was up early on Sunday as I did not go out for St. Valentine's. There was a post-punk dance party with Doghouse Rose, Gaijin Smash, and Mad Ones at The Bovine Sex Club, a venue that I have been to only once in all my time in Toronto. But doors weren't even until 9 pm; I wouldn't last through such late hours.
I took my clothes to the laundromat. True to their sign, they were opened at 6 am. A little bit later, a lady lugged in several bags of laundry, enough for the enormous Dexter washer. I found out she drove in from Oakville which seemed a tad far for a shabby business. But the clothes actually came from her parents who lived nearby on Westmoreland. Her mom was in the hospital for the past 3 weeks due to a stroke. She also suffered from dementia since 2024. This could complicate recovery since they might not be able to follow rehab instructions. I wished her better news for the rest of the year.
Though I had no Cupid-inspired plans, I did experienced a dream of romantic bliss. This seemed like a portent to go to a particular East-end yoga class for the last time. Why? Because I held a pseudo-limerence for the instructor. Pseudo since I was really pining for an alternate timeline where, in my younger days, I had found someone who was also kind and gentle. Limerence because I actually knew nothing about them: most yoga instructors project equanimity and patience in class. The session was full of deep twists and stretches; my thighs were shaking at some points. I only wished we attempted some arm balances as these deeper poses are a good preparation for them.
Back in the West-end, I was so famished from class that I ate almost all of the vegetarian plate ($14.99) from Laziza. I also spent the afternoon in a restful half-doze. But Sundays were made for idle laziness. I was still too full of lunch to attempt more than a handful of nut mix with some leftover rice for dinner.
