I love the fact that every person disregarding me today will regret it tomorrow. I make love to that fact every goddamn night. It’s not bitterness or sorrow, just acknowledgement of the waste. Resources better used toward getting laid is funneled into drunken, post-midnight angst. People in-between great love affairs want to believe their drama is interesting. Truth is, that territory belongs squarely to the itinerant loners. Those of us dealing with perpetual rejection and apathy. We only know the love of cold, distant mothers.

Discovering the burden of co-dependence is like being jaded. There are so many reasons to frown and lack of identity becomes a real problem. To recover, some people leave dependent territory and venture into the wilds of independence. Doing this, thin layers of protection developed in prior relationships tear like rice paper. The need to find approval is so acute you might actually care what your parents think. Don’t despair! This is the same physical pain felt by the newly homeless. With time and patience your burning cold skin is as numb as the hope that got your there.

Teaching yoga is similar to character acting for me. I picture myself as a bubbly yoga teacher that cares about things like balance and chi. Since there’s a part of me that actually believes some of that it only takes a couple minutes to adopt the character. I believe if I teach a yoga class every week I’d eventually develop a personality that teaches yoga. In this world the person conducting these classes doesn’t have any control over the reality outside of the class. She can tell you how and why to do the different poses in a yoga class but if you asked her to navigate the bus system she’d be lost without recourse.

I want to be a self-confident person that can use the bus (I do), go to a new place (I do), and even greet strangers jovially (I do). Yet I don’t feel complete. It’s as if part of me still lives responsibly in Memphis, married to the good man I originally chose to spend my life with. The other half of me is here, jet-setting between venues and lavishing in whatever talents I decide to pursue. If I could reconcile the two personalities, well let’s just assume the apocalypse would hit. The only reason my ex-husband and I have this luxury is because abortion was legal in Memphis. A daughter would change everything.

Seeing other people with their daughters conjures feelings of guilt over my abortion. My baby would be seven if I’d carried to term. It’s not so morbid I think about it every day but that was certainly a moment in my life. I remember the sickly yellow tile tinged with green. Small one-inch squares laid in a kitchen of a house that was meant for a mansion, not a clinic. Even so, they test my urine for pregnancy hormones. In the procedure room there’s stained glass in the windows. A church-like atmosphere while I contemplate the complete privilege of my decision.

The doctor delivers his warning about a pinching feeling as he delivers the anesthetic injection. I howl briefly as he inserts the vacuum apparatus. My friend’s one advice was not to look at the equipment they use. I looked because that’s how I am. I decided to look when the doctor sewed my split elbow at age 8. It was numb and detached and I still couldn’t stand the sight of my own jagged flesh being sewn together. I might be able to handle it now. I just hope I don’t have the need.