You might think my panic attack yesterday had to do with the fact that I’m performing at the Park West tonight in front of 700 people, as Fear Experiment has finally arrived. And coordinating the event. Which entails a silent auction, dinner, a slideshow, playbills, ticket-taking, music playlists, reserved seats, two films, thirteen volunteers, a photographer, two videographers, a makeup artist, fifty-five nervous nelly non-dancers and non-improvisers dancing and improvising, and a bunch of other stuff my brain can’t process anymore and refuses to articulate at this moment.
But my panic attack had nothing to do with Fear Experiment.
While chatting with my yoga teacher before class yesterday, she nonchalantly said, “We’re moving to Santa Barbara in October.”
We’ve been together for about two years now. She was my first. I’ve been with others, five, six, maybe seven; none of them compare. In fact, most were horrid. We see each other one to three times a week. She’s been with me through fat-days and skinny-days. She’s seen me progress, she’s seen me struggle. She’s stepped in my sweat puddles and inhaled my stinkyness. She’s witnessed me in heartbreak, she’s witnessed me in love. She’s given me the ability to do half a push-up after a lifetime of no push-ups.
I really don’t know what I’m going to do.
No, there is no other yoga teacher in the entire city of Chicago! No, I will not embrace change or give someone else a chance!
If I freeze or start crying on stage tonight, it’s a good bet that it’ll have nothing to do with the fact that I just made a joke nobody laughed at or that I just fist-pumped left when I was supposed to fist-pump right. It’ll be because I’m envisioning life without Yoga Teacher. My own personal Fear Experiment in the middle of the real Fear Experiment.