Around this time, I also notice that my yoga practice no longer buffers my work worries, that even in the middle of savasana or a pose that requires all my focus, part of me is thinking about whether I’ll have a job next month. Clearly this is yoga’s fault. I need a more difficult practice, one where I could die if I’m not paying attention. Suddenly it seems obvious that my longtime neighborhood studio is geared toward sad and lazy people who don’t want to work hard. I embark on a sort of Hostility Tour of other studios around town, looking for one that can instill the fear of God in me, wiping out my fear of unemployment.

Wouldn’t you know it? It turns out every single yoga studio in the Greater Seattle area is for cowardly pussies. “My body is going to devolve with this level of lowest-common-denominator instruction,” I tell John, who wisely does not argue. I wonder if running, something I’ve avoided since eighth grade, might provide the level of distracting agony I require, and, boy, am I right. At first I pursue the sublime misery three times a week. But if three is good, five can only be better. Soon my right shin starts kind of squeaking, but I ignore it.