because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Monday, 29 June 2015

Lose The Weight

superlatively rude


1. clean out your ears

I thought I’d misheard him. I must’ve. Maybe it was the language barrier. Surely nobody would say that.

Lose the weight.

He moved around the swelteringly hot yoga hall adjusting the other women in the room – women who were, I had noticed, twenty, thirty, and forty pounds slimmer than me. Of course I'd noticed that. I wasn’t threatened by it, or upset. I’ve worked hard for the body image I’ve got, and I’m only in the business of doing me. But: other women’s bodies are not invisible, and I do not know in which incarnation of myself I will be evolved so as not to spot the chic with the chaturanga arms or Jessica Alba abs. That’s just how it is.

That’s just how it is.


2. short-term gluttony as a vice

There’s not a singular reason why, on my arrival back home, I temporarily stopped being healthful. There’s seldom a single reason for any behaviour, is there? I sat in mama’s She Shed and ate Kit Kats – I cannot name a number (will not) - because I “deserved” a “treat” after “writing so hard”. I could have fish and chips at lunch because after months away I “needed” some hearty British pub food. I didn’t have to use the gym membership I’d signed up for because my body “had to have rest” after all that yoga teacher training.

Part of it was a fuck you, too. At least a slither. It was a fuck you for anybody daring to reduce me to numbers on a scale. There is no way, in this life or the next, that I’d choose salad over potatoes and the treadmill over a Suits marathon to fit in with the careless ideal of some guy. I wouldn’t let that possess me. So I went the other way.

Lose the weight.


3. it wouldn't be fair to tell you his name, but:

I fancied him a bit, truth all told. We all did. He was solid muscle, and monosyllabic enough that his personality didn’t muddy our filthy thoughts. Maybe if he was Western, geekier, friendlier, he wouldn’t have been the clichéd enigmatic yoga teacher fantasy. Maybe if he wasn’t hot I wouldn’t have had tears escaping down the sides of my face, landing soundlessly on the mat underneath me, as I lay in corpse pose, willing myself not to let that important part of myself die. The part that knows better.


4. reminder to self

If I had to sum it up – what I believe – I’d say something like, there is no right way, or wrong way, only the way you are doing it. Or maybe, it all just is. Definitely that none of us is fucking up like we think we are. Definitely that bit. When we do think we’re doing it wrong, we don’t have to punish ourselves for it. Doubting ourselves is as much a part of it – of being - as counting on ourselves. It all just is. 

There's that damned humanness again.


5. it's not always your fault

I cornered him, afterwards. Literally – he was in the corner, getting changed.

“You need to apologise to me,” I said. “You told me to lose weight in there, in class, and that is not okay with me.”

He denied it at first, a feat easily done if you avoid eye contact. I stood my ground and he conceded. “I didn’t mean it,” he finally said, eyeing me up and down. “I think you’re… fine.”

“Fine?” I repeated. That was all the confirmation of who I am that I needed. “Buddy, I do not need your approval. What you said to me was rude, and unprofessional, and I'd like you to say sorry for that.” Silence hung. “I’m waiting.”

I got my apology.


6. seasons

Everything is seasonal. Life. Love. Working out. The bits that go up and the bits that go down. There was a moment, a quantifiable, solid moment, last Thursday, when I decided: okay. Next phase. Next bit. The binging is over. I choose mindfulness. I choose to get back on the horse*. That's the kind of love I need now.

(*stationary bike).


7. this is personal

I needed to blow off some steam, be lazy, sulk a little, and so I did. And now I want to use my body a bit more, and so I am. 

Disclaimer: I am not “prouder” of myself in these days because I am working out daily. 

I wasn’t being “bad” when I ate that bag of Maltesers, and I am not now being “good” because I’m not. If every behaviour I (we) demonstrate mentally gets a tick or a cross beside it, I (we) will go fucking nuts. Wouldn’t anybody? Eat the cake, don’t eat the cake. Yoga for six months solid then forget what a sun salutation is. It doesn’t matter. You can’t hold self-love hostage to a set of criteria. Self-love is unconditional. Self-love is what you start from, not the graduation certificate on being well-behaved. It all makes your world go ‘round. 


8. conclusion

I’ve decide to do what he said. To lose the weight. I mean, not off my ass - of course. Who cares what I weigh, as long as I'm heathy and happy and strong and sexy? No. I’m losing the weight of a self-judgment which does not serve me because OH HEY WORLD! I’m doing my best. Every single day I am doing my best, and that’s enough. I'm enough. I feel like superwoman when I use my body, and long may that reign. I just had to remind myself that I want to feel like superwoman for nobody else but me

Funny how one off-hand comment from a nobody can almost throw you off your game.
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