“I love my new yoga mat,” said I to my parents, attempting a more personal dinner conversation. “You can’t love a yoga mat,” corrected my father authoritatively. “It’s an object and you can’t love an object.” Aged nearly half a century, I still felt the child in this exchange. I can and I do love my yoga mat, I wanted to retaliate, yet withheld to keep the peace. Still, it made me defensive, but I’ll get back to that. In the mean time, my mat is the Manduka, the legendary Black Mat Pro, formerly known as, the Black Mat. Somewhere along the line, the mat became professional. Like many of our decisions, we make them because people of influence made them. “It’s the Cadillac of yoga mats,”

Duck Tape and Neosporin can patch you through most life-threatening disasters says my Search and Rescue /Medic sister, Jeanne. She investigates lost planes in the backcountry of Montana. "What isn't disentigrated in the crash," she states rather matter of factly, " is eaten by bears." Too much information, I think, when I've merely called her for solace from my broken heart. Besides, I reside in the flats of Sacramento and the only bear I've seen is on the State Flag. She is playing Polyanna, attempting to make me feel better because there are no fatalities in my relationship crash. I should be grateful, but I'm not. To make matters worse, stress erupts in sores on my face, which is wher