Find the Lesson and Settle Down, Girl

I learned a painful lesson last week.

Aren’t you dying to know what it was? Be honest—as humans, we’re a teeny bit fascinated in others’ minor suffering. It probably comes from 1000s of years of watching fellow cavepeople get trampled by wooly mammoths when you’re the one safely hiding in the cave.

I was driving home at dusk after an appointment, rushing to be back for a 5 pm Zoom call, another car was tight on my tail, and I was thinking about how it’s getting harder for me to see at night with my multifocal contacts lenses. And BOOM! I came over the last curve by my neighbor’s house and hit a pothole one driveway away from mine.

Damn! That was loud.

I turned into the bottom of my driveway, got out to head to the mailbox, and heard “Sssssssssss.” Oh no. I walked around to the right passenger side, and there was that distinctive sound. But then I noticed the right rear tire looked kind of low. But there was no sound there. It must be the front.

I got back into my car, thinking I could quickly drive to the top of the driveway, but an urgent message popped on my dash with flashing lights and sirens: Tire pressure dangerously low. Do not drive.

It appeared I had not just one flat tire, but two. Who does that 100 yards from their house?

Even worse, about a month ago, as we walked by that spot, my partner Dana pointed out the giant crevasse and said, “Our neighbor should really fix that. Someone is going to hit it someday.”

Ha.

Doesn’t Dana know you never point out hazards on a golf course? Once you point it out, someone ends up in it.

But there’s a lesson here somewhere. Whenever something happens like this happens to me, I always ask myself: “Okay, Universe…okay, Higher Power…what are you trying to tell me?”

Lesson #263: Slow down.

I just replaced my left rear tire because somehow, turning into a tight parking spot last winter, I managed to slice that tire on an icy snowbank. That time, it was an inch-long surface cut and was not leaking, so we had tried to gorilla glue it. But my mechanic pointed out this summer that it was risky driving with it that way. So now there would be two more new tires in my future—to the tune of almost $700.

Once, I had a yoga teacher say during class, “Figure out what your yoga is. Want to wipe your face in between every posture? That’s your yoga. Constantly fixing your hair or straightening your clothes when you practice? That’s your yoga. Always looking around to see who is deeper in the pose than you are? That’s your yoga. Work with what is your yoga.”

Always hitting things with my car? That’s my yoga.

Slow the @$%# down. Stop rushing through life. Where am I really going, anyway? There's nowhere to go but here.

So, what is your yoga?