Yoga story

I vaguely remember my mother doing yoga when I was about seven. It seemed to be in between her PTA meetings. She had a friend who came over in the afternoon and they talked in the kitchen and the friend smoked. My neighbor John Bolger and I stole some cigarettes once and smoked them in the yard by the swings. Mom and Dad had cocktail parties some evenings, and Dad would say, "Hi Bob! What can I getcha?" and Bob would say "Scocthansoda" or "Vodkamartini". I would draw conclusions accordingly - scotch drinkers were favored because it sounded like butterscotch; "martini" was a suspicious word. This holds true today. At any rate, my mother did yoga (before abdicating it in full); so in my yoga classes now, I can't help but look at the 30-somethings around me as potential stand-ins for my mother in between her PTA meetings. They are the same age, have the same issues - they are identical, for all intents and purposes. The difference is in me, and my perspective. I have become that distant image I once viewed from afar.