It’s a cool, grey Saturday morning in Portland.
I’m on the road, cruising along about 45 mph, pleasantly caffeinated, smoothie in hand, headed to teach my 8:15am class.
Life is calm and quiet and good. (The caffeine helps).
Good, that is, until, out of nowhere, smack in the middle of the road, surrounded by other metal deathboxes zooming along at 45 mph, my car just dies.
Shuts off. Loses all power. Sayonara, baby.
The dashboard lights flash once, ominously, and then they die, too. All of them.
Holy shit. What’s going on?! What am I gonna do?!
I shift the weirdly-energyless car into neutral. There’s a parking lot just a few hundred feet ahead to my right, if I can just manage to get there. Deliberately, clenchedly, I steer that lifeless monstrosity of glass and leather and steel into the parking lot, shove it awkwardly into Park, sit for a breathless moment hoping nothing explodes, and turn the ignition off.
Exhaling, I think to myself:
This is why we do yoga.