One warm day, two years after her disappearance, Netty showed up on my doorstep. I handed her the keys to my huge, gas guzzling Chevy Malibu and flew off to the Caribbean islands as she drove north to Ohio.
It was now the mid ’80’s, there was the burgeoning gym life, Jane Fonda was everywhere, and the waft of some mysterious yoga practice was emanating from California to our eastern shores. During all of this I found myself losing perspective. One day I noticed that I was pretending to know what I was doing. It wasn’t intentional, because I had placed myself, no, allowed myself to be placed in the position of teacher. I was therefore being treated like I knew what I was talking about and the next thing I knew I believed it myself.