I was about six months deep into my two year contract and island fever crept up on my ass like a stranger in a dark alley. Up until that point, I had settled quite comfortably into my new lifestyle as the Pilates/Fitness instructor on a private resort island in Turks & Caicos. The stress of NYC’s daily grind, my chaotic schedule plus the sensory overload of the concrete jungle were buried in the depths of tranquil Caribbean waters.
I kindly and gently pushed my way through the Union Square crowd with a deceptively friendly smile while muttering expletives under my breath at the aimless pedestrians creating sidewalk congestion. I was gonna be pissed if they made me late for yoga!
For me, meditating is like having bad sex. It fulfills a need but I'm bored, my mind wanders and I can't stop wondering how soon it'll be over. But unlike bad sex, I know that meditation is a good and necessary evil. Why? Well, I've noticed that I've got these preconceived, new-agey ideals about appropriate emotional responses to life's experiences and traumas.
