Seeing the Light

At a holiday party recently, I resisted taking a turn on Santa's lap for many reasons. For starters, I thought it a bit unseemly for a fifty-five year old woman to sit in the lap of an unsmiling grown man dressed up in a bright red suit, particularly since Mrs. Claus was standing right there next to him and she did not appear to be in a particularly good mood. Factor in the long line, the tantalizingly close do-it-yourself bloody Mary bar, and the little girl who had boldly announced her intention to taint a perfectly lovely chocolate fountain with her next helping of chicken nuggets and the jolly lap pretty much lost its allure.

Bah humbug. I totally get why Mrs. Claus was looking a bit sour. If I have to drag myself out for one more minute of forced merriment I could be forced to emerge from my funk and, well, I just don't feel like it. A well meaning acquaintance who also happens to be a highly trained professional in matters of the mood made the mistake of asking me the other day how I was doing. He didn't seem horrified when I unloaded my sorry tale of woe about nothing in particular, and he didn't even suggest I pop in for an official hour on the couch. He simply suggested I go on line and order myself a special light. It would cost a few hundred dollars, but if I stared at it for forty-five minutes every morning the results would be obvious and amazing within two weeks. In fact he asked that I call him with a report after he returns from his sunny beach vacation. I wondered why he would bother with a beach vacation when he could just get his own light and stay home and watch endless reruns of Criminal Minds and Blue Bloods but he's the expert so I just let it pass.

Seasonal Affective Disorder. S.A.D. It's all about the lack of sunlight and vitamin D3, and it's too cold to go out even if I were inclined to so the indoor miracle light seemed like a reasonable idea. I even paid for an expedited delivery so I can reap the full benefits during the months when the sun don't shine pretty much at all. Sugar plum fairies danced in my head; I thought about calling some friends; I even imagined walking the dog for more than a block. Goodbye S.A.D.

The package arrived as quickly as promised, and I could hardly wait to open it and let the happiness begin. Well, hardly, but I am more patient than I thought because I was perfectly content to wait and finish watching one of my favorite episodes of Criminal Minds as it built to a climax. So I tucked the box under my desk and made a mental note to open it as soon as I began to feel sad. Or S.A.D. Which did not happen until hours later, when I thought the light might interfere with some good sleep.

It has been a couple of days now, and I have caught up on several more episodes of Criminal Minds and Blue Bloods and have even had more than a few wild mood swings but I have still not gotten around to opening the box. I have come close, but every time I think about slicing through the tape I feel S.A.D. (and more than a little bit S.T.U.P.I.D.). I think about what it might feel like to sit in front of a big blank screen of imaginary sunlight for forty-five minutes every day and I know in my heart I would much rather be sitting in front of the television watching a screen filled with imaginary serial killers and other bad guys working their own special brand of magic. I also know in my heart that I wouldn't last more than five minutes before running to the pantry for some chocolate, which is on the list of things that exacerbate S.A.D., and that would just be counterproductive. I suppose if I switched over from my stash of Reese's to a bowl full of leafy greens the light might make better economic sense, but I'm a realist, and the thought of replacing hours of crime shows and lethal carbs with overpriced fake sunlight and tasteless leafy greens just makes me sadder and sadder.

Yes, it's sad and a little bit wasteful that I am now about to pay another shipping fee to return the unopened promise of happiness, but ultimately the refund of over two hundred dollars will ease the pain. And in a few months, Santa and the bitter Mrs. Claus will be back home on the North Pole and holiday parties and sunny beach vacations and chicken nugget infused chocolate fountains will be a distant memory, and maybe everybody will stop being so S.A.D. At the very least we'll tire of it and find countless other reasons to be in a bad mood.

As for me, I am planning to use my fake sunlight refund to make sure my cable bill is always paid on time and to purchase enough chocolate to keep me from coming down from my very real sugar high before the next vernal equinox.

Ode to Oy

At home in suburban Chicago on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I should have anticipated that the chilly morning raindrops would turn into snowflakes by noon. I should have also anticipated that the wintry precipitation would precipitate a mad rush to the local grocery store and a concurrent dip in the value of human life. A pervasive fear of melting (or possibly ruining a pricey new blow dry) turned parking into a contact sport. And the sudden threat of a potato salad famine resulted in a crowd at least three deep at the prepared foods counter. The joyous holiday season is upon us, and it's all about survival of the fittest. Let's face it, peace and love and the spirit of giving are nice ideas, but they just can't compete with good science.

With my nerves still frayed from a death defying attempt to pick up some staples on Monday, I woke to an early text from my mother on Tuesday. Again, I should have anticipated that my iphone's weather forecast for rain and above-freezing temperatures in New York on Wednesday would be so displeasing to the media that reporters everywhere (remember what I said about survival of the fittest?) would be chatting incessantly about yet another storm of the century and the prospect of thousands of American travelers not making it home for Thanksgiving. My mother was begging me to change my own flight and my daughter's flight from New Orleans so we could arrive before the apocalypse. I ignored her. Later in the day, I relented and called the airline. The nice man on the line politely put me on hold for a respectable number of minutes so he could get over his laugh attack and then came back on to tell me there were no seats available on earlier flights. I rechecked the weather forecast on my iphone; still no snowflakes. There was nothing I could do, so I went ahead with my manicure and hoped for the best.

Every year, holiday excitement is accompanied by a fair amount of holiday dread, and it seems to start earlier and earlier. This year, Walmart moved Black Friday up a week, and the pumpkins decorating the trees in the center of my town were replaced during the first week of November by strings of lights shaped into snowmen and reindeer and fake presents. All this jump on merriment simply adds to the stress -- the anxieties about travel and overcooking the turkey and the hours on end spent with family members you otherwise don't see. Or about the hours on end you won't get to spend with family members you otherwise don't see. Even in the most dysfunctional families, the only thing worse than family gatherings is no family gatherings, or family gatherings without one hundred per cent attendance.

We all go through this, every year. Lost rituals, changing dynamics, dashed expectations. Tis the season to be melancholy, yet we all look forward to it for some reason. Are we that complex, or are we just stupid. Maybe it all boils down to survival of the fittest. If we remembered, each year, what a pain in the ass the holidays are, we would stop celebrating, and then what? No more memories of freezing our butts off making sure the turkey in the deep fryer on the deck doesn't blow us all to kingdom come. No more memories of long waits on the tarmac, of pretending to eat one cousin's annual cranberry mousse despite an aversion to pink food, of gastric distress so severe your jeans don't zip again for months. No more good stories.

Then again, there's nothing wrong with a non-story. The camera crews wandered around Ohare on Wednesday morning looking bored. The arrival and departure screens were filled with rows of "on time." At LaGuardia, things were just as grim. I smiled alluringly at one cameraman, hoping he would train his lens on me instead of the decidedly uninteresting screens, but he remained optimistic that cancellations and delays would soon take over. Finally, as I waited for my daughter's flight at Newark, a reporter was bored enough to talk to me. This was my moment, and I was not about to let it pass. I told him all about my own family's version of this year's non-story. The panic. The phone calls and texts. The sleepless nights. All for nothing. My flight was not only on time but I also had an entire row to myself. The kids behind me didn't cry. Nobody near me threw up. My daughter's flight was only a few minutes late. Even the descent through the dark rain clouds felt no more death defying than a child's roller coaster ride. Yawn.

But I got my name in the paper! Okay, it was a local New Jersey rag, but my story made it in, the lead three paragraphs in an article that contained two other even less remarkable stories. And we are heading out, shortly, to celebrate our family's umpteenth Thanksgiving in Connecticut. Attendance will not be perfect -- it hasn't been for some time -- and I will miss the ones who aren't there. But I will joyfully eat way too much deep fried turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts and macaroni and cheese and deep fried pickles and whatever other new item we add to the menu this year. And I will pretend to eat too much cranberry mousse.

And I will put my skinny jeans away for a few months, and, eventually, after the distress passes, I will look forward to next year.

Lone Sharks

By the light of my opened laptop I managed to shower, get dressed, and even put on a little makeup without mascaraing my lips or glossing my lashes. Between the time change and the power outage that had somehow managed to correct itself in all but one block of hotel rooms, darkness had descended unexpectedly early on day three of what otherwise seemed to be a perfect vacation.

I expect little snafus whenever I head to Mexico and have learned, after many visits, to turn a blind eye and just stop and smell the coffee -- even when the single espresso machine on the property is on the fritz. I have also learned to turn a deaf ear to friends' dire warnings of drug lords run amok and random shootings and mass beheadings. Not that I really pay attention, but the closest thing I've seen to violence at a touristy all inclusive on the beach is somebody slapping at a mosquito.  Anyway, it's Mexico; shit happens, and I just don't let any of it ruin my day.

Maybe I operate in darkness more often than I care to admit. Old habits die hard, and I see only what I expect to see, pretty much ignore the rest. It is only when I am out of my comfort zone that my senses become more acute and I notice my surroundings and find myself being surprised. Like when I am forty feet beneath the surface of the ocean and find myself swimming in the wake of a giant sea turtle, locking eyes with him as he glances back and waves a little flipper as if to say "follow me." Or when outsized versions of the impossibly flat fish with iridescent stripes that I barely notice in the aquarium in my dentist's waiting room criss cross in front of me as I cut through their undersea paradise with the grace of, well, a fish out of water.

Ask me, though, to tell you what colors those iridescent stripes were, or to describe the exact pattern on the turtle's shell, and I would be stumped. Ask me to describe the shark that glided toward me as I stared, paralyzed, from my perch about ten feet above, all my senses on high alert, and I would not be able to tell you much. He was gray and his triangular teeth appeared sharp; I could swear he was looking up at me, deciding whether he was in the mood for a snack. I saw nothing but garden variety shark. I wonder if he noticed anything other than chum. My senses may have been on high alert, but my powers of observation were abysmal.

On my first full day back home in American suburbia, where bad things don't happen, my senses once again kicked into high alert as somebody out of the ordinary drifted toward me. As much as I had dreaded my return to reality, I relished the comfort of my tried and true routine. Feed the dog. Get him into the car. Run into Starbucks to get my grande mild roast. Walk the dog in the eerie quiet of downtown suburbia as I sip my coffee. Same old. When the person dressed all in black, including a hood and a scarf wrapped around his face with only a narrow opening for his eyes, jogged by me I thought something was amiss. I stared directly into his eyes, even noticed that he was not wearing jogging shoes. I kept walking, even called my mom just to catch up.

When I came back around the block, I saw the person again -- or at least I thought I did. Same dark shoes and clothing, only this time the hood and scarf were off, and he stood still by a tree, staring at the array of rotting pumpkins at its base. I noticed that he was African American, certainly unusual at seven o'clock in the morning in lily white suburbia, but not out of the question. Again I stared, but he averted my gaze. I stared but all I can tell you is that he was dressed all in black and he was African American. I could not tell you the shape of his face or his height or his weight. Garden variety, like the shark. Gray, sharp triangular teeth. I wonder if he noticed anything other than suburban white chick.

I felt silly later that evening when I dialed the police hot line. They were still looking for the guy who had robbed a dry cleaner two blocks away from my Starbucks only moments before I walked my dog that morning, coffee in hand, senses on high alert only because something seemed out of the ordinary. I had read about it on line, seen the surveillance video picture of a man dressed all in black, his eyes barely visible. The police were looking for somebody with light skin. Could that be right? Was the man I saw dressed all in black but without a hood or a scarf the same man who had jogged by me. Was he the man who had stared with barely visible eyes into the surveillance camera?

How is it possible, that in the brightness of the post-time-change early sunrise, in the snafu-free streets of American suburbia where all the lights were on and I rarely had to shower or get dressed or apply makeup in the dark, with my senses on high alert because something was a bit out of the ordinary, that I could see so little. All I saw was a person who, contrary to on line news reports, was not light skinned, a person who may or may not have been the same person who jogged past me covered from head to toe, a person who may or may not have been the same person who robbed the dry cleaner.

Darkness descends, early and often.

Scuba Don't? Scuba Do!

I was just along for the ride. My idea of an aquatic adventure is staying up for the midnight chocolate bar on a cruise ship, and scuba diving has never made it to my bucket list. Not even close, along with sky diving and karaoke. 

I'd like to blame my change of heart on peer pressure, but most of the folks on the boat barely knew me, and could not have cared less whether I suited up or sat alone drinking tequila while they plunged in. Our guide, an ex military expat who had experienced less difficulty choosing to be a PADI instructor than deciding where to do it (location, location, location), prodded me gently, and by that I mean not at all. Occasionally during the pre-dive briefing I imagined he was looking directly at me -- especially when he was tossing in assurances about all the things beginners don't need to worry about -- but it could have been because my entire body was shaking so badly he was assessing the need for medical assistance. 

The good thing about bracing for a life or death situation -- like your lungs over inflating or your brain imploding from atmospheric pressure changes -- is you forget about the things that really freak you out, like slimy fish brushing against your legs or jelly fish tentacles dangling in front of your nose or the occasional misguided stingray who feels threatened by the unidentified flippered objects (UFO's) cruising through the neighborhood. The bad thing about bracing for a life or death situation is your mind is so preoccupied with imminent catastrophe you forget to pay attention when the guide is explaining how to prevent that from happening. Inflate, deflate. Top button, side button. Red gauge, black gauge. Inhale, exhale. Blah blah blah. 

Life is not a spectator sport, no matter how much your friends and loved ones encourage you to accept your limitations and sit this one out. I could almost hear my mother's sobs through her email: Please don't do it. Promise me. I promised. There was no chance I was going scuba diving when the thought of diving off the side of the pool makes me queasy. And don't bake in the sun either. It's bad for you. Well, so are french fries, and life's too short. But I get what it's like to be  a mom, so I promised and didn't mention my fingers were crossed. My friends laughed at the thought of me on the ocean floor without a good reason (like being on the Titanic). In fact, they laughed at the thought of anybody being on the ocean floor without a good reason. What are friends for, if not to validate your cowardice and your complete lack of a sense of adventure. 

I suppose I knew from the moment I agreed to go along for the ride that I would not just be going along for the ride. The prospect of watching everyone else emerge like conquering heroes from the deep, exhilarated and clearly on the verge of chatting incessantly about the indescribable thrill of it all, was too much to bear. Our ex military expat guide did not seem surprised when I grabbed the wet suit he had brought along for me "just in case" and squeezed myself into it. He also did not seem surprised that I had put it on backwards. 

For the life of me I cannot explain how I allowed myself to be shoved off the side of the boat backwards into the ocean only to endure some basic skills training that involved some maneuvering of equipment and coordination of mouth and nose breathing and swallowing of gallons of salt water. My ears were already in pain, and I was barely a foot beneath the surface. Somehow, though, I was deemed capable of progressing to an actual dive, and, for the life of me, I cannot explain how I once again tumbled backwards into the water, this time without a friendly shove, and descended slowly into a strange world where, theoretically, I could not breathe. As promised, our guide stayed close to me, checking on me and showing me some sights. He gently poked his finger underneath a diaphanous jelly fish, and I watched it fold into itself as it ascended and then open into what looked like a delicately painted umbrella as it floated downward.  More quickly than I would have believed possible, the guide let go of my hand. 

For the life of me I cannot explain how I felt in those next moments, gliding through the water as if I was born there, practically skimming the top of the reef, wondering why the exotic creatures weaving in and out of the intricate undersea housing development beneath me did not even seem to notice I was there. Or care. Maybe that's why I felt so at home. The water in this first spot was a little murky, the reef and the fish not quite as vibrant as the ones I've seen in pictures. But after forty-five minutes seemed to pass much too quickly and I popped to the surface, exhilarated and wishing I could chat about the thrill but rendered utterly speechless, I would have had no trouble explaining how much I looked forward to dive number two. 

By the time we arrived at the next spot, where the crystal blue water was so clear you could see forty-five feet to the bottom, I was feeling confident. I rolled in backwards as if it were a normal thing to do, floated over to our buoy, and reminded myself not to rush. I descended more quickly this time but still carefully, stopping frequently to alleviate the pressure in my ears so nothing would impede my progress. Once again, I was near the bottom, feeling strangely at home in a world where I was a complete stranger. I was closer than I ever thought I would be to a stingray, then a barracuda, then a slithering eel. That's the stuff you can see in pictures though, the stuff I thought I could easily live without seeing in person, in a wetsuit, forty-five feet below civilization as I know it. But what you cannot see in pictures is the feeling that you are floating in space, the steady and unfamiliar sounds of a vast unknown, the calm of breathing in and breathing out slowly through your mouth, oblivious to what lies around the next corner. Time stands still, real life is suspended. Wet yoga. 

One of my new scuba buddies asked me if I was going to get certified now. I don't know about that, but I cannot imagine never visiting that place and again feeling that indescribable feeling. So, to the naysayers -- myself included --  I admit that, before this trip is over, I will suit up one more time and dive in, eyes wide open, backwards. 

Cowbells and Whistles

Five days have passed and I am slowly recovering from the punishing physical effects of the Chicago Marathon.

At mile twelve I felt just as exhilarated as I had at mile three. By mile twenty-six, had it not been for the pressure of the cheering crowd, I might have thrown in the towel. My young friend and I had pushed through, gotten as close to the finish line as security would allow. It was grueling, but we had somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the front row, and we couldn't move, even if we wanted to. We were in it for the long haul.

Watching my daughters run their first -- and, they both claim, last -- marathon was exhausting. Exhausting and priceless. Personal space be damned, we were so close to our fellow spectators, as one woman put it, she thinks she might have had sex with at least one stranger. I told her I hoped she enjoyed it, although I certainly hoped it had not been with me. The physical intimacy drew us close emotionally. We traded runners' names, adjusted our positions based upon projected finish times, and promised to cheer loudly for each other's loved ones. We guarded our positions jealously, glaring at anyone who dared to encroach, elbowing latecomers who attempted to seep through the cracks. Bonding made the wait so much less excruciating.

At mile three, my daughters seemed to be floating on air, waving when they heard us, mugging for our cell phone cameras. At mile twelve, they looked just as strong, just as happy. Well, almost, anyway. We felt pretty good too, having just replenished our depleted reserves with a greasy breakfast sandwich and more coffee. We felt a twinge of guilt, snarfing down food even though our path from mile three to mile twelve, as the crow flies, was no more than a few blocks. It could have been worse, though. Some cops had directed us to "the best—you guessed it -- donut shop in the world," but we thought that would be unseemly. Well, it would be unseemly and the line was way too long.

When I began running over thirty years ago (yipes), I was sure I would one day run a marathon. Some combination of joint pain, muscle aches, and a pitifully short attention span has proved me wrong. I have yet to run that marathon, and it seems highly improbable that I ever will. Accompanying my daughters as they picked up their registration packets, I contented myself with the vicarious thrill of their excitement, feeling a bit mopey about not joining them. I chastised myself, as I trudged through the maze of the registration site, soaked from overdressing and an ill timed hot flash, for settling for a cowbell while others collected numbered race bibs with computer chips. I am not good at vicarious.

I am, however, good at being thrilled. In fact, I am really good. When I watched my daughters run by, close enough to be hand in hand, from start to finish, there was nothing vicarious about my joy and pride. They were doing it, they had done it; my children had accomplished something that to me, and many others, seems unattainable. Yahoo! Yay for them! So incredibly cool!

It's a feeling I have experienced often as I have watched my three children grow and navigate the world in ways I never would have dreamed possible. The thrill of being in the stands, doing little more than shrieking encouragement and shaking a cowbell, has been anything but vicarious. The journey – whether I go the long way or cut through as the crow flies – remains exhausting but priceless.

After a few days of walking backwards down stairs, both daughters have recovered from the punishing physical effects of twenty-six miles of pounding. I am still a bit achy; these days, it takes me a long time to bounce back. Blissfully, though, the exhilaration lingers.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Same old same old. Well, I'm the same, but older, and the kids are different, but the same.

Seven years after my oldest child was a college freshman, I again find myself visiting campus, meeting a new crop of eighteen year olds. Each one reminds me of someone I had met years ago -- the kid everyone on the floor loves, the one everyone loves to hate, the few you just know you'll see in cap and gown less than four years from now and feel as if you've known them forever and wonder why time goes so fast.

As I lay practically comatose on my daughter's dorm bed, my body contorted unnaturally around the various items of her daily life that seem to occupy permanent spots on top of her rumpled comforter, I gave up on trying to hoist myself up to greet the seemingly endless stream of visitors. At one point, alone in the room, I was momentarily embarrassed when a boy pushed the door open without knocking. Unnecessarily, no doubt, I peered up at him and explained I was not one of the girls who lived there. When he introduced himself, I apologized for not getting up to shake his hand. He didn't seem at all offended. I suppose you can't expect social grace when you're the one who didn't knock.

The quad outside the dorm was swarming with baby faced boys (I wasn't fooled by the facial hair) playing volleyball and football or just simply on the move, filled with energy and burgers and hot dogs and clearly unaware of the paunches in their future. Unaware that one day the hair on their backs will be thicker than the hair on their heads. They don't know yet about nose hair clippers; they are light years away from proctology jokes.

I had convinced myself I was down in New Orleans a mere four weeks after school had started because my daughter was homesick. Apparently she thinks I was down in New Orleans because I was, well, "child sick." It's not that she wasn't glad to see me -- I did, after all, come armed with a credit card and a dozen Chicago bagels. Not New York bagels, but still a treat in the culinary wasteland of jambalaya and po boys. She's been away before, for even longer than four weeks, but freshman year in college is different. A more official sort of parting, the kind from which there can be no real return. And, as she pointed out, it had been just the two of us for five years. You get kind of attached.

I've been down this road before. Twice. It's the same but different. Six and seven years ago there were still birds left in my nest. There was always somebody else around and I thought it was good to give the college kids their space, to really let them leave. Not that they ever really did, completely. Six and seven years ago it was Facebook that kept the kids tied to their old friends from home and maybe slower to connect with the new friends down the hall. Now it's instagrams and snap chats and selfies. The phones have gotten smaller and now they're getting bigger again, but there's no stopping the trend toward staying in touch, always being somewhere outside the moment and place you're in. Maybe it's like love though; maybe there's enough connectedness to go around.

After dinner with my daughter and her roommate last night, I headed back to my hotel, sad to leave them but happy to wind down the day, alone. They headed back to the dorm, excited to get ready for a frat party. The night was young, and they would be spending it surrounded by friends they've just met and, at the same time, constantly in touch with friends they've recently left behind. Two girls boarded my street car, and they seemed disappointed that there weren't two seats together. Diagonally across the aisle from each other, both tapped away at their cell phones the entire time. When we pulled up to their stop, though, they took off, still tapping away but giggling together about something. Maybe it is possible to be two places at once.

It's Sunday morning, and it will be hours before I meet my daughter for breakfast. For me, it's the same routine, different Starbucks.  I can barely remember the Starbucks on M Street in D.C., and am already feeling quite at home at the one on Magazine Street. The people are different but the same. Students, young families, twenty-somethings just back from a run. I'm the same but older.

I am looking forward to spending another day with my daughter, but content with my time alone. Well, alone except for the occasional text with folks far away. Same old, same new.

Namaste. Damnit.

As I teetered my way clumsily across a narrow concrete curb the other day, avoiding the relative safety of the broad sidewalk (and risking ridicule), I thought this was how a twelve year old boy must feel (minus the risk of ridicule) on a quiet summer afternoon, skipping stones by a lake. Alone but not lonely, joyful but not overly so. Teetering across a narrow concrete curb -- my version of a happy dance.

There has been a noticeable change in my gait since a relatively new friend set me straight a few weeks ago. "Aha!" We had been practicing amateur psychology on each other for several hours, and were heading back to our cars. I felt like I do when I emerge from an afternoon movie, blinking and confused by the harsh assault of daylight. As we prepared to disappear back into the solitude of our own heads for the rest of the day, our conversation moved to lighter topics -- the indignity of lactose intolerance, the joys of going gluten free -- the innocuous yet inescapable minutiae of life in the third millennium.

And yoga. My on again off again passion, the unlikely discipline that once kept me afloat, then made me feel trapped, and then, only recently, began to buoy me up again. I had confessed to my new friend that I felt a bit intimidated in that morning's class. It felt like extreme yoga, or, I suppose, yoga for extremists. I was surrounded by overachievers: a sinewy specimen to my left wearing paper thin tights that gave the illusion of being full leg tattoos, a fearless fireplug on my right who kept going upside down and toppling onto the wood floor with a reverberating thud. Forty minutes into the class, I was still struggling with the simplest poses, trying to convince myself that an inability to completely straighten my left knee did not make me a bad person. Oh, how I envied the overachievers, how I pined for the good old days of hyper extension.

Aha? I expected a bit more empathy from my new friend, who seemed well versed in the feelings of inferiority that plague us women as we forge deeper into middle age, the era of all sorts of pauses. "I am better than you are at yoga!" I could swear she had told me only moments earlier that she sucked at yoga. My inner goddess was withering; I wanted to punch this woman, wipe the serene smile off her face, reclaim some ground on the superiority scale.

She elaborated. "I suck and I don't care!" I felt ashamed, tempted to turn in my Lululemon professional discount card. She was right, more right than she could have been had she stood on one hand and folded both legs into a perfect lotus behind her ears while she sipped at a cup of green tea. She is better than I am at yoga, if there is such a thing as being better at yoga. All the lessons yoga had taught me, the words I have pretended to live by, that I have passed on to others, they were all coming back to bite me in my flexible ass. What happened to non-competitiveness and non-comparativeness and being present in the moment? My own moment, that is, not somebody else's.

Days have passed since that walk of shame with my friend, and I have tried to be present and non-judgmental and enjoy as many moments as possible without wanting anything more or less. I shrug the small stuff down my back with my shoulders, and I celebrate even the most minor victories.

This morning, in a hot and overstuffed holiday yoga class accommodating the dedicated yogis for what would have been three classes on a normal Monday, I teetered my way into a balancing pose, one that usually requires little effort. I was hesitant, trying not to fall. "Nice, Lisa," I heard the instructor say. She could not possibly have been talking to me, as shaky as I felt, but, then again, maybe she was. I sucked, but I just didn't care.