This morning as we were both exiting the bakery—and this is not a bustling city coffee shop but a lone building on an empty country road—the driver of this BMW nearly knocked my coffee over as she pushed ahead and let the door swing back on my face. Without apologizing the bird hopped in her car and then—no joke—nearly ran me over as I was crossing the parking lot. When I saw her bumper sticker, I burst out laughing. “Lady, you will never be MY yoga teacher.” In a battle of influences, masshole bests om shanthi every time.
Last night I had the anxiety dream about homelessness that I’ve anticipated since losing my jobs last spring.
I rarely talk about my fear of homelessness, especially with married friends. When I do, they say things like, “You won’t be homeless. You can stay with us.”
When I report their assurances to my shrink, a practical woman who knows from rough times, she raises her eyebrows. “People think they’re being supportive,” she says. “But staying on their couch would not be the same thing as having a home. Minimizing your valid fears is not helpful.”
My shrink never sweetens realities. Maybe she does with other people, but she is well-acquainted with my capacity to om-shanthi myself right into destitution. I’ve done it before.