Follow The Breath

By: Liza Behles

Okay everyone, let’s turn off our phones and find a comfortable seated position. You in the Ed Hardy tank — sir, you’ll need to remove your Jawbone. Also, I’m afraid your Chihuahua will have to wait outside. Ahem — ma’am — yes, you with the gold leaf temporary tattoo — this is a silent meditation, so let’s save the Ohmming for later. Okay. I think we’re ready. Let’s all close our eyes and inhale. Mmmmmmmmm.

Now exhale. Ahhhhhhhh. The breath will be your guide tonight, so stay focused on it. Watch what it does. Listen to what it wants. Don’t try to control it. Just follow it. Innnn. Ouuuut. Innnn. Ouuuuut. Good. Follow it in through your nose and down into your lungs. Follow it out through your nostrils and into the room. Follow it through the beaded curtains and into the lot. Out past the ambiguous signs and the meter maid who is right now, probably writing you a ticket, especially if you’re the S-Class owner who consistently parks like an asshole. Stay with the breath. Follow it down the street past the clubby fro-yo place and then past the Ben & Jerry’s that’s like 500 times better than the fro-yo place but you wouldn’t know that because goddammit you’re a fighter. Follow it past the liquor store where you’ll probably stop on the way home because choosing fro-yo over ice cream was hard, and you deserve a reward. It’s not drinking alone if it’s with your cat. Innnnnhale. Exxxxxhale.

Stay with the breath. Follow it past the Whole Foods and — oh — okay actually follow it inside because even the breath can’t resist those not-so-little baggies of chocolate macaroons that pair so well with half a bottle of rosé. Good thing they’re gluten-free! Follow the breath down the street past the Equinox where you willingly exchange $254 every month for three crowded Pilates classes taught by someone who was born without joints or body fat. Do not follow it up the stairs and into the locker room because even the breath — which is really just a cloud of air — will feel like a hideous troll compared to the tan, chiseled Blake Livelies who are right at this very moment straightening their ombred hair extensions topless in front of the mirrors with the glassy-eyed look of entitlement common among those who will never know what it feels like to spend their own money on $98 yoga pants. Keep breathing. Innnhale. Exxxhale.

You’re doing great. Stay with the breath. Follow it through the park where you could just exercise for free but don’t because your d-bag ex and his 21-year-old dancer-slash-model-slash-humanitarian girlfriend take the morning bootcamp class every day and OMG have you seen her ass-slash-boobs-slash-everything? Keep going. Follow the breath through your neighborhood all the way to your apartment. Sure, it’s a walk-up, but don’t worry, one day you’ll have a doorman. Maybe. But probably not if you stay at your current job — because let’s be honest, Chad is probably gonna get that promotion, which will be pretty embarrassing because he’s only been there for five weeks and has no skills but is just so goddamn nice. Ugh, you could just rip that stupid little breast cancer awareness bracelet right off his stupid little wrist. Fucking Chad. So what if he has 10,000 Instagram followers — you have a master’s degree AND THE LOANS TO PROVE IT. Wouldn’t it feel good to just pull a Jerry McGuire and peace the fuck out of that beige hellhole? Then you’d have the time you need to do something big. Like invent an app. Or a startup. Or an app startup like that chick from high school who created that dating site that matches people with similar STDs. It is actually insane how crazy rich she is right now. Have you seen the pics of her house on Facebook? She has what appears to be an entire brownstone in Carroll Gardens and is also somehow smoking hot even though she’s had like five kids…

KIDS. Now there’s a fading shore. Sure, you could technically meet someone in the next six months and you could technically do some medical stuff that costs a lot of money — which might become a non-factor once you sell your app-startup — but you don’t even have a business plan! You should’ve listened to your d-bag ex and gone to business school. Then you’d at least be Chad’s boss and wouldn’t have to spend all your energy stressing over the promotion which would give you more time to work out and meditate and resist ice cream and concept your app and also you’d have a bunch of well-connected friends who could put you in touch with angel investors or VCs or whoever it is that pays college dropouts millions of dollars for STD dating apps. Maybe you should Linked-In the chick from high school. No. That’s creepy. You need to get your shit together. What are you even doing right now? You’re wasting precious app-concepting time in some basement with a bunch of new-age weirdos in Ed Hardy tank tops when you could be out there succeeding. Or at the very least maximizing your Equinox membership. So on the next inhale I want you all to open your eyes, stand up, go check your car for tickets, and reflect on the mind-blowing pile of failure that is your life. Now exhale it all out. Ahhhhhhhhh. Namaste.






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