One pointed friggin' focus

I know that yoga is an internal journey. I know that I should take advantage of this cross-legged moment to tune in to the gentle heat of pranayama filling my belly, torso and upper chest all the way to my clavicle. I know that I have to rein in my mind puppy, show him that I am the boss of me. I also know that I can cheat and listen to the soothing sound of the Zen water fountain lilting its way into my brain to the great Graal of yogi nirvana, One pointed focus.

But I don't. I have a weird pain in my back, probably from shovelling a metric ton of snow out of my driveway yesterday. I can't breathe super well from my left nostril as Simon has broken my neti pot and I can't be bothered to buy another one and resume injecting hot salted water into my nose once a day. The fountain noise makes me want to pee, oh, and I should also check if my period has started, it's a few days late and I find myself wondering like every month if a vasectomy can reverse itself naturally after three years.

''Pizza'' my teacher says. My ears perk up. ''If you're wondering what to have for dinner tonight, here's an idea: pizza. Now go back to your breathing.'' With a soft chuckle, I firmly pull on the leach and tell my puppy to sit and pay attention.