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In the early days, I hustled hard teaching yoga to make ends meet.
One day, arriving early to teach, I tossed my bag in my car and decided to go on a walk.
2 minutes later, I changed my mind and returned.
Too late.
My car window was smashed: no more bag, no more wallet, no more iPod.
Read moreWhat was your first car?
Mine was a 1981 Chevy Malibu “Classic,” V6 station wagon that I shared with my twin brother. The paint that remained on the vehicle hinted that at one time it was baby blue. We called it Boo Radley or Boo for short.
One day after school on one infernally hot August afternoon, 4–5 us high schoolers were circled around Boo, doors opened, paused in the ritual of airing out the car before we drove home. This rite served both to cool the molten-hot-baby-blue-faux-leather seats as to avoid melting the flesh off the backs of our pencil-y legs and, if I’m being honest here, also to exorcize the interior of the car from the unmistakable and unctuous stench of teenage boy. You know that smell.
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