the walk to yoga is a leisurely fortyfive minutes through a eucalyptus scented morning trimmed in oak trees dreadlocked by moss. the class is in a barewood room, thin purple mats and careful breathing until i am every muscle shaking and sweat finds its way out of all my skin to slip the soles of my feet as i balance. a month ago i couldn't touch my toes, and now i am standing on my palms.

the walk back, still shrouded in cool fog, i make eyecontact with eleven people in a row as they drive by. after a shower and a peanutbutterbanana bagel, my bike to work is a brisk halfhour, dodging tourists who wander all over the trail gaping at deer and elephant seals. between the coffeeshop and the office, i balance my chai on the handlebars and laugh as it splatters wildly at every bump.

my calves are aching now, my eyes fluttering closed. all the fruit i bought on tuesday is gone, burnt by my everincreasing metabolism that insists that i eat eat eat. i'm worried that if i get into better shape, i won't be able to afford to feed myself. when i was swimming and weight lifting and kickboxing and swing dancing, i was also eating two boxes of macaroni and cheese, three peanutbutter and jelly sandwitches, an apple, a handful of baby carrots, a quart of milk and some salad to hold me over after practice till my mom got home to make dinner.