People are always telling me that they can’t do yoga because they’re not flexible.

“That’s good,” I say. “Overly flexible people pull things. We don’t have enough strength. You’re lucky to be inflexible!”

Yeah, well.

This week, I’m the inflexible one. My muscles are someone else’s: tight, sore, unyielding. There’s no give.

“I’m so tight,” I tell my teacher. “It’s weird!”

“Well, you’ve been working like a dog,” she says.

“I guess I’ve been sitting more than usual,” I say. The last months have been full of intense analytical work, “we need something now” work, brain work.

Like, math.

And my forward bends have suffered. Sometimes I forget I even have feet, forget I’m not just a disembodied brain logged into some bright cheery platform.

I call websites “platforms” now, I guess.

Last night, I dreamt I was holding my face in my hands. I was startled to see it. I saw myself blink. The self is not there, I said.

So where is it?

I pulled my face back on my head and drove west. When I came to the coastline, I left the car behind and instead of walking towards the water, I went straight for the rocks. It was harsh terrain. I was an idiot.

“Some people don’t want to let go of the cozy winter,” my teacher said. “My friend was saying how much she hates spring. Lots of people do.”

It’s time to let go of things, she said.

“Huh,” I said. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Think about it,” she said.

I thought of warm jackets, of electric blankets, of hitting snooze again and again. I thought of bread, of density, of hiding myself away. I thought of unanswered emails, of promises made that could never be kept.

I’m not the person I was then.

I just want the person I married, he said.

I’m not that person anymore.

Also, I never was.