Dear ,
Back in the good old days, when none of us knew we were rich and
back before my hips crashed, meaning pre-pain, I used to feel my best
when decked out in the latest yoga clothing line, say, Athleta, with a
fresh mani-pedi, working out on a state-of-the-art spin bike, in our newly
renovated spinning theatre, nestled into a spacious corner of my boss's
high-end health club. Look up How to be Happy in Greenwich and there'd
be my picture.
Could trappings buy happiness? My American Express card and I were determined to find out. That was back in the day.
Then the great Swami called PAIN arrived for my first lesson on
re-defining Happiness. With my hips rusting out (otherwise known as
oxidative stress and arthritis), I started to rethink what "feeling my
best" meant.
Funny that no matter how shiny my toenails were in yoga class, if I
didn't feel good (as in out of pain) what I looked like counted for
crap.
It slowly dawned on me how insignificant the outer layer (KEEP READING)
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