If I could eat crunchy Cheetos every day and still remain slim, my fingers would constantly be stained orange.  Because of this, my downward dog “almost” barked in yoga.  I’d eaten one small 100 calorie pack of Cheetos, and my rump was threatening to betray me in a room full of Ashtanga yogis, so I clinched my cheeks like a muzzle on a pit bull.  I’m a neophyte Ashtanga yogi, who recently introduced a quivering head stand into my yoga practice while many of my classmates are working on one arm hand stands.  They are an intimidating bunch.   Not deterred, I stay in my lane and remain grateful that my body is as flexible as it is.  I’ve told myself that true yoga purists are vegans or at least vegetarians who would be offended to know that I occasionally sample the processed snacks purchased for my children’s lunches.  A new yoga nut, I’ve committed to eating healthier during intermission.  

Because I love the arts, I’ve always viewed my life as theatre, poetry in motion, a masterpiece in the making.  In my delusion, I’m convinced that the only thing stopping me from receiving a Tony nomination is a sheer lack of singing, acting or dancing ability.  Nonetheless, in honor of my invisible theatre career, I’ve labelled this halfway time in my life the “intermission,” because I refuse to embrace anything with the word “crisis” in it. Just like a true theatre intermission, where you don’t have time to both visit the throne and chug a chardonnay, most days I have to choose between the porcelain throne or the chardonnay.  My days are full so some days I drink chardonnay while on the porcelain throne, but only when I’m certain that it’s five o’clock somewhere and there’s another adult in the house.  Remember, you can’t call it “social” drinking if you’re doing it alone. During my intermission, I decided to reawaken a yoga practice that had been napping since Act I of my life.  Act I was filled with career, marriage, a separation, marital counseling, a reconciliation, more counseling, children, mortgages, job loss, home invasion, death of a parent, relocation to two states, a new career, and a host of other dramas.  I was a prime candidate for the meditative healing of yoga.  During one of my recent yoga meditations, I realized that what helped me navigate through Act I of my life was a good bra.  

Well into Act I, after years of thinking that I was a 34B, I finally got the twins measured and realized that I was actually an A cup.  Always a driven student, I was ecstatic!  And then I remembered that in the bra world, B’s, C’s and DD’s trumped A’s.  Nothing to celebrate there, so I decided that the bra that I would celebrate was my circle of support.  In that department, I’m a 36 double  D for sure!  I have a smart phone contact list full of women who are licensed to give me advice, admiration or admonishment. They are my wise counsel, my bras!  Some are silver foxes and others are young enough to be my daughters.  I learn something different from each of them.  Like the women in my circle of support, my bras are varied:  black, tan, pink and strapless.  

Like talented understudies, sometimes the people in my circle of support substitute roles, and sometimes I terminate members and promote others like any good stage director.   That’s the fun of being the director of your own play, if your support circle isn’t working, you get to build a new circle or put on a new bra. 

The stage lights are flickering and signaling that my intermission is almost over.  I need to return to the theatre and focus on Act II.  I’ve declared that  Act II will be even more fabulous than Act I, and Act I was fabulous!  This time, I won’t sneak Crunchy Cheetos into Act II, because experience has taught me that the ushers will hear and shine their little flashlights in your face, and the gym time necessary to burn off fake food in Act II is longer than the gestation period of an elephant.