"Yeah, I'm totally heartbroken. What's your name again?"

The other night, I ran into a girl whose name I couldn't remember -- we took a creative writing class together at NYU five years ago -- and we'd seen each other at Barnes & Noble in September of this year. I barely remember our conversation then, other than letting her know that our professor, Barbara Bejoian, passed away and we talked about what a wonderful teacher she had been. And then this woman (what is her name?) told me that she practices Reiki and I told her that I am a yoga teacher.

But there must have been more to it than that because when we walked past each other this week, we waved and said hello (we were both with other people) and she called out, "Did you get all your boy troubles sorted out?"

I stood there on the corner and blushed, embarrassed to have disclosed some personal and problematic detail of my relationship with Robert to a woman whose name escapes me, as do the contents of whatever I said. Robert is the most private person I have ever met and it is something that about him that I deeply respect and value.

I never have difficulties keeping other people's secrets but, until that moment, I had no qualms about spilling everything I feel and have experienced in private, to outsiders. Now I wonder if baring my own intimacies so freely doesn't somehow cheapen them.

I just painted my toes a color called Clean Machine and I'm off to teach a yoga lesson.