Green and gold with geometric patterns - my spandex tribute to the goddess of running this morning.
I laughed to myself as I helped my festive pants shimmy up my legs and then my thighs, and finally a violent worm-like movement as I forced the elastic over the last two humps of my body. These pants used to be looser.
A paused to remember the meeting with my therapist the week before...
Her: Do you love yourself?
Me: Yes, of course.
Her: Do you love your body?
Me: No. I mean not all of it.
Her: Do you believe that your body is part of yourself?
Me: Silence...
That was the first, last, and only appointment with that counselor. Initially, I wasn't going back because she was dumb, judgy, and insensitive. After thinking about it for a while, I knew I wasn't going back because I didn't need to talk about my body image issues any more. I realized that I didn't love myself.
I threw on a sports bra, and then another one for good measure - anti-chafing roll-on, a shirt, and then I headed out the door. As I drove to my gym, I could feel my motivation diminish. Just an hour earlier, my plan of a 3 mile run followed up by weightlifting and light stretching seemed inevitable. Now, my mind was debating a light walk to a bakery.
I parked my car in the nearly empty lot and sat for a few minutes. Why do I do this anyway? A trip to the gym today, tomorrow a trip to the cake shop? A little binge eating, perhaps? Some people hurt themselves with drugs or alcohol. My weapon of choice - food. I took a breath. These feelings of hopelessness and shame were rare but familiar.
A door opened. Emerging from the gym were seven or eight folks being led by an athletic, short-haired woman.
"We're going to head north on Garfield towards Alberta park and then make a loop."
The students in her class seemed confident and excited. Most notably the middle aged woman in the back. She was plump, curvy. Her black spandex capris and green race shirt outlined her "non-runner" body as she began to move. Her smile glowed with the assurance of an Olympian. The pack of runners got smaller as they ran away.
I took another breath, got out of my car, and headed up to my gym.
A paused to remember the meeting with my therapist the week before...
Her: Do you love yourself?
Me: Yes, of course.
Her: Do you love your body?
Me: No. I mean not all of it.
Her: Do you believe that your body is part of yourself?
Me: Silence...
That was the first, last, and only appointment with that counselor. Initially, I wasn't going back because she was dumb, judgy, and insensitive. After thinking about it for a while, I knew I wasn't going back because I didn't need to talk about my body image issues any more. I realized that I didn't love myself.
I threw on a sports bra, and then another one for good measure - anti-chafing roll-on, a shirt, and then I headed out the door. As I drove to my gym, I could feel my motivation diminish. Just an hour earlier, my plan of a 3 mile run followed up by weightlifting and light stretching seemed inevitable. Now, my mind was debating a light walk to a bakery.
I parked my car in the nearly empty lot and sat for a few minutes. Why do I do this anyway? A trip to the gym today, tomorrow a trip to the cake shop? A little binge eating, perhaps? Some people hurt themselves with drugs or alcohol. My weapon of choice - food. I took a breath. These feelings of hopelessness and shame were rare but familiar.
A door opened. Emerging from the gym were seven or eight folks being led by an athletic, short-haired woman.
"We're going to head north on Garfield towards Alberta park and then make a loop."
The students in her class seemed confident and excited. Most notably the middle aged woman in the back. She was plump, curvy. Her black spandex capris and green race shirt outlined her "non-runner" body as she began to move. Her smile glowed with the assurance of an Olympian. The pack of runners got smaller as they ran away.
I took another breath, got out of my car, and headed up to my gym.
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