A few years ago when I was living in Eugene, Oregon, I was in a yoga class when a man named Gene couldn’t stand on one foot. He hopped up and down trying desperately to gain his balance while holding his other foot in front of him. Because it was Eugene, once the hippie center of the universe, we practiced in a circle (and often rubbed each other’s shoulders). And standing in a circle meant no one could take their eyes off Gene.
He looked to be in his late fifties. I pictured him as part of a quiet minority in a town known for hemp dog leashes and drum circles. I’m pretty sure he wore slacks in his daily work. Maybe even button downs. I thought he was probably a lawyer or a businessman who sat behind a desk most of the day. Maybe he took a walk at lunch but other than that he I didn’t imagine he got much exercise. In my little daydream about what his life must be like, he certainly didn’t do much yoga.
But, still, there he was, hopping.
Thud, thud, thud.
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