I practice yoga so that for 75 minutes I don’t think:
Was it something I said or didn’t say, wrote or didn’t write, mumbled, uttered, whispered, thought or didn’t think?
Was it the way I sat, walked, slouched, wore my hair, smelled, or didn’t smell?
Was it what I wore? Were the jeans too casual or the jacket too bright?
Was my laugh too loud / little/ often?
Was I too confident, not confident enough, too smart or overbearing?
Did he get back with the ex?
Was I supposed to call back after I finished yoga? Why did he bother to call after the last e-mail if he wasn’t interested?
Oh dear god – is he hurt? Has some tragedy befallen him? Is this not about me? How self-centered can I be?
What’s up with the lack of a handshake or even hug?
Why can people get married more than once and yet after 8 years, 3 dating websites and nearly 30 first dates, can I not even get a second date? If the only common denominator is me, what’s wrong with me?
But in those 75 minutes, silence. Neither perfect nor continuous but rather glimpses of what is possible while moving with my breath. And that imperfect silence is respite enough to keep me coming back.
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