This was my “office” yesterday.

I drove to Coronado, a little island here in San Diego, and I drove on base and grabbed a fish taco to go and then did my 20 minutes of soul time and my writing time right there on the beach. Hashtag breathing room.

I spread out my beach blanket, the blue and white throw I got in the Middle East the first year Steve and I were married. I love it. As I was settling in to eat my lunch, I noticed {not pictured} to my right a young woman doing yoga in the world’s most microscopic bikini.

Every guy that ran by on the beach just about fell down. The lifeguard circled in his little jeep-thing more times than I believe was actually necessary. I mean, there was no one even in the water near us.

At first it was just sun salutations but then I look over — as I’m shoving down my fish taco — and she’s got one of her legs up in the air. In the world’s most microscopic bikini, in case I hadn’t mentioned that. And I was like, Good grief. There are CHILDREN nearby. FAMILIES. DOGS. I’m EATING over here. Put your LEG down.

Of course I said these things only to myself . . . mostly.

Then a little voice inside me said: “Isn’t it interesting that you came to the beach today and there’s a woman doing yoga on the beach right here, right where you’re sitting? Don’t you find that interesting? And isn’t it interesting that you’re annoyed? Don’t you find that interesting?”

Shut up.

I did not find any of it interesting.

And then I thought about a story that I hadn’t thought about in awhile: A long time ago I was talking to a middle-aged woman who was bookish and wore sensible shoes and she told me she danced on the beach as her way of experiencing God.

When she told me this, I was struck dumb. I stood there looking at her with my mouth open. I’m sorry, what did you say?

I wrote about her in my first book. And, of all the stories I’ve written over the years, that is one of my very favorites. Because she was free. And I was so envious of her freedom. To be Plain Jane and to dance and dance and dance. Right there on the beach.

Dancing is the embodiment of freedom, to me. And I’m a very self-conscious dancer. I don’t even really wish I was a better dancer. I just wish I was a freer dancer. And the bookish woman, dancing her prayers to God, was FREE.

And this hot little twenty-something in her itsy-bitsy-teenie-weenie was free, too. Maybe she liked the attention. Maybe she needed the attention. I don’t know. But the fact that she was comfortable enough to do her practice right there on the beach . . . well perhaps, deep down, I was feeling that familiar envy. The envy I felt for Plain Jane.

And then, as I watched Yoga Babe, that little voice inside me said: You want to edit her in all the ways you edit yourself. You’re bothered by her because you perceive her to have something you want: Freedom to be yourself. Freedom to express. Freedom to move.

I tried to drown that little voice with my Diet Coke {which I am officially off of except sometimes} but that little voice is surprisingly resilient.

So I got up off my blanket and walked right past her and — while dodging men who were practically jogging in place in order to watch her — went out into the ocean, which was ice cold and immediately refreshing. I did my 4-7-8 breathing Erica taught me (inhale for 4 counts, hold for 7 counts, exhale for 8 counts), and I looked down.

The water was so shallow that it was perfectly clear and I could see gold glitter in the sand I was standing on. Like someone had dumped glitter everywhere. It’s mica. And it’s so beautiful.

I let the water splash up my leggings. Farther than I intended, but it was so hot, and it felt good.

I turned to walk back to my blanket and the yoga girl’s mat was there but she was gone.

And the little voice said: Expand. Expand instead of edit.

{Which, of course, is gold.}