Did I happen to mention that my back went out as I was shutting the door to the yoga studio, where I had just finished a round of increasingly deeper backbends, the kind where your goal is for your hands to grab your ankles? No, I didn't mention that, did I, because I'm covering up for Yoga. Yoga didn't mean to do it. Yoga and I have a codependent relationship. When Yoga comes home drunk and smacks me around I take off Yoga's shoes and get a blanket and let Yoga sleep it off, and in the morning there are no recriminations, only coffee and something sweet to take the edge off, and we pretend that nothing happened. And see, I'm fine now! Oh, there's a little soreness, and I won't be doing any backbends for another week or so, but that's okay, it's not an injury, it's an opening, an opportunity to explore my body's limits, as well as the drug store's selection anti-inflammatories and bath salts. Yes, I love Yoga and Yoga loves me, and I deserve whatever Yoga does to me because Yoga needs to teach me a lesson. And now I'm going to lie down quietly on a heating pad and let that lesson sink in.