I don’t have a television. I spent much of my youth watching one and I wonder if I might have become a touch more focused had that not been the case. These days, I find that I get slightly depressed when I splurge on more than a few minutes in front of the boob tube. On a recent trip to Vermont I challenged this predisposition. I had access to satellite TV - hundreds of channels at my unsuspecting disposal.

Living in Manhattan, I would love to be able to eschew Yoga and all those chic lithe ladies toting their mats around town. Instead, I have taken to it. Running elicits strange pains and disconcerting ennui. I get ear infections, distressing lane possessiveness, and really dry hair from swimming. And I am not always good at structuring my time to allow for regular workouts. I’ve come to find that routinely going to Yoga classes with particularly good instructors has helped my strength and flexibility. It has enhanced my mind-body awareness and overall focus and composure. At the risk of sounding cliché, I even manage to have an occasional transformative experience which permeates my perspective ever so slightly.