Unordinary

I’m a guy who doesn’t mind things a certain way: the same yoga practice every day, the identical breakfast seven days a week, a bike ride to familiar spots as often as possible.

Consequently, I’m a bit out-of-sorts from the last week of unfamiliar paths: the family and I spent four nights in Las Vegas from Sunday to Thursday, and then I attended the annual Philosophy Camp at Smoke Farm over the weekend.

Both events had their charms (although the one’s at Smoke Farm were infinitely more charming), but I’m glad to be back home in my usual spot preparing for a week ahead that promises to be just as typical as I tend to like it.

That said, Sin City was reasonably enjoyable: I came home a winner at the craps tables and even, for the most part, at the few slot machines I put five bucks or so in a couple times. My high point as a gambler was making three passes and throwing a bunch of numbers while shooting at the Hard Rock Casino and Mimi, Jen, her dad, and I were suitably awestruck by the Cirque du Soleil production of “O,” which featured dozens of contortionists falling from great heights into an ever-changing pool of water.

Philosophy Camp, by contrast, had only a minimal water element—an afternoon swim on Friday in the Stillaguamish River, but the dialogue was way better. We read a bunch of Continental philosophy and beat our heads together over what the authors were supposedly saying and while this year, for the first time, there wasn’t any yoga, I did get to experience my yearly struggle with sitting meditation, a practice I admire deeply but not enough, at this point, to take it up myself.

So, this week, I’m hoping to sleep in my own bed every night and enjoy my usual breakfast of yogurt and nuts, although I may go wild and add cashews to the almost mix.