Morbid

It's clear that moving companies are doing a brisk business in our little corner of the Rust Belt, especially since the closing of yet another factory this year. One moving company rep was particularly cheerful in giving us an estimate. "He's like an undertaker in a time of plague," Adam observed.

Are we death obsessed? Later that evening, Adam and I were lying flat on our yoga mats, in the final shivasana ("corpse") pose. We had a new teacher last night and so we were surprised when, after instructing us to stretch out and close our eyes, she began moving quietly from student to student. From the corner of one eye, I saw that she had a glass bottle in one hand and a hankerchief in the other.

It turns out that this most generous of yoga teachers was administering quick shoulder and neck massages, after applying to each of us a delicious, citrus-scented oil.

Adam said afterwards, "When I heard her approach, I looked over to make sure that she wasn't going to chloroform you."

"Adam!" I exclaimed, with horrified tone. But then I had to laugh, because I'd had exactly the same sick thought.