30 Books I’m Glad I Read Before Age 30: Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

Also I found the blog post that inspired me to write my own list. Amazing what Googling a title in the clear thinking of coffee will do.

Anyway, on to the books.

7) The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf — Unlike some of the other books on this list, The Beauty Myth did not inspire me to further love and following of Wolf’s writing. Still, it was the first time I’d stopped to consider just how very many resources are tied up in convincing us to prioritize pretty over all else.

8) The Baby-Sitters Club #1: Kristi’s Great Idea by Ann M. Martin — Laugh if you must. There was a summer with a baby-sitter where I was almost too old for baby-sitters, certainly thought I was too old for baby-sitters and all these other little kids, but in reality was not actually old enough to stay home alone. My sitter’s daughter allowed me access to her shelf of BSC books when it became apparent that the book-a-day I brought for myself was not going to be sufficient.

9) The Bible in a combination of King James Version and New International Version — No, not all of it all of it, but most, over a period of years. It’s much difficult for someone to defend bigotry with, “But Jesus said…” if I can counter with, “No, He didn’t. Show me.”

10) Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott — I read this book when I was trying to figure out how to go from writing as a very private thing I did, where I never showed anyone, to writing as a more public act, where I actually wanted people to read. But of course I was terrified that they’d laugh and I’d discover that I’d been “doing it wrong” the whole time. And I read Bird by Bird precisely when I needed the permission that the “Shitty First Drafts” chapter had to give. I’m not going to sit here and say that if I’d never read it, I wouldn’t be writing today. But it was sympathy for how difficult, intellectually and emotionally, writing can be — and encouragement to just write anyway.

11) Lies My teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong by James W. Loewen — (Except I’ve only read the original 1995 edition.) The first edition came out when I was going through my phase of, “I am right; all these grown ups are wrong. Therefore I will pretend to listen, but really they can’t teach me anything.” It was nice to have a book that validated that, even in part and even if for different reasons. Additionally, as it turns out, some — okay, a metric fuckton — of my parochial school education came with a hefty dose of bias. Lies My Teacher Told Me helps me remember that I want to be as complete and impartial with my students as I can. I don’t promise that my remarks are never biased, but I do my best to teach them how to think — how to find information, how to evaluate information and viewpoints, how to synthesize information to draw the best conclusions they can — and not what to think.

Unwisely: Part 12

Among the last few continuations of this story. (I’m predicting maybe 13 or 14 parts in total.) Trigger warnings for relationship abuse and self-harm.

It worked — as much as you can call it that — for a while. I had control again, even if he couldn’t see it at first. That control comforted me, even at the cost of tearing my skin and watching blood seep out of me. Which probably doesn’t say good things about my mental health, but it did seem to work.

I want to say I stopped caring about what he did to me, though that isn’t quite true. I still cared, but not in the same way. The comments and the hitting shamed and humiliated me, but I didn’t spend nearly so much of my brain planning them out anymore. I stopped provoking, stopped inciting. I stopped playing by his rules; he stopped being in control.

Of course, this only infuriated him more. What he wanted, what he craved, was that control. Yes, he wanted to see my shame and tears afterward, but he also wanted to see my terror beforehand. When he couldn’t have that anymore, it not only deprived him of power pleasure, but I think it actually made him scared.

“Class is going to be over soon,” I commented dully one evening during our break.

“You think so?” he asked, falsely casual. “We haven’t even discussed half the readings yet. You don’t think it will go the full time?”

“I meant, the final exam is next week.”

He started to massage my shoulders, a gesture that looked caring but that I’d learned could be made painful with relative subtlety. Worst case scenario, if I cried out, he could pretend it was accidental due to unknown muscle tightness. “Good call. Are you saying you want to make a study date? We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

I shrugged my shoulders into his hands. “We can do that if you want.”

“Are you saying that isn’t what you want?” He dug in nails.

It didn’t hurt much, so I didn’t move. “I just wanted to make sure you wanted to spend our last week of class together studying for an exam.”

He bit my neck. It hurt, would bruise, but my hair would hide it. “What do you mean our last week together?”

“Of class, I said.”

Mouth still close to my ear, he whispered, “That’s not all you said. You said last week together. Do you not like me anymore?”

Well, no, I didn’t, not like this. “Class is starting again.” Everyone else had trailed in though the professor hadn’t yet closed the door.

His hand at the back of my skull slammed my head into the corner of the brick wall. My vision whirled and sparkled for a few seconds. Instinctively, I brought one hand to my head and pressed the other into the wall as I stood up.

“I’ll see you Friday at eight if that works for you. In the library.” I stepped into the women’s bathroom and didn’t let the first tear come until the door swung shut behind me.

No one entered for several minutes, well after I’d locked myself inside a stall.

“Are you okay?” I recognized the voice of one of my classmates. “You’ve been gone from class a while.”

I willed my voice calm; I managed exasperated. “Yeah. Genius me just managed to bleed through my pants again.” Which wasn’t true this time but had been before. More importantly, it was an awkward enough explanation as to escape further questioning.

“Do you need anything?”

May as well commit to the lie, I thought. “An extra pad if you have one.”

“I only have tampons,” she said apologetically. “Will those work?”

I brought my fingers down from my head; they were rusty brown with dried blood. “Thanks, but no. I think I’m just going to go home early tonight.” I pulled off my jacket, the one I wore because school’s classrooms were about fifty degrees by evening, and tied it around my waist.

“The last class before the exam? Are you sure?”

I raked my hair forward, hoping it covered whatever mark or mess was visible on my head. “If I have questions, I’ll find the prof during his office hours.” I came out of the stall and rinsed my hands, careful not to look in the mirror or at her. I don’t know what she saw.

“I’ll be fine, really.” I left.

A Queer Tumblr Cross-Post

No, I really do mean “queer” as in “some sexual orientation other than straight.” Originally posted at my Tumblr, but I thought it might be substantive enough to post here as well. Trigger warnings at the beginning for talk of suicide and self-harm.

Day 5 – Thoughts regarding inner turmoil about your sexuality; Did you have any? Did it escalate to self-injury or suicidal thoughts?

I don’t think any part of my (past) history with self-injury is related to inner turmoil about my sexual orientation.

That said, I do have some. Like, I know I’m queer — but I wonder how much of my same-sex attraction as been quashed (and/or opposite-sex attraction augmented) by:

• A childhood and adolescent religious community that viewed same-sex attraction as explicitly sinful, perverted, and predatory.
• Family members who would be varying degrees of Not Okay with me out of the closet. (Some would outright disown me, some would “love me anyway” but try to change me, some would try but just Not Get It over and over, etc.)
• A heteronormative society where EVERY RELATIONSHIP SCRIPT I EVER SAW during the first 15+ years of my life taught me how to respond in flirting/romantic/physical scenarios with guys. True, a lot of them aren’t realistic or are based on stereotypes, but even that is a far cry from the NOTHING I saw about girl-girl (or woman-woman) relationships growing up.

Now, I do not love my current partner any less, nor do I doubt the long term capacity of our relationship. However, I *do* wonder about my overall tendency to end up in (public, longer-lasting, more socially acceptable) heterosexual relationships.

How much of that is me, and how much is me playing it safe?

Day 5 & Day 6

This is another set of suggestions for December’s Daily Dose of Yoga. Again, feel free to use, modify, delay, or ignore these suggestions as you see fit.

Day 5: Satya & Swadyaya

Truth and self-study. Or, as I like to combine them, self-truth as a result of self-study.

Which is a sort of an abstract philosophical lead in to these truths about myself:

1. Sometimes I feel self conscious about needing to take restorative care of my body, afraid that if I admit that I’m not up for a vigorous asana practice, this means that I am weak or unfit — and afraid that… someone (me, other people, the universe at large) will view this weakness as a moral or character failing rather than as what my body or mind happens to need at this time.
2. On the flip side, sometimes I am lazy. The end of a good, fiery practice feels awesome and purifying, but getting through the fucker is a shitload of work. Pushing my body to the edge may well be fulfilling, but it is seldom lighthearted, thoughtless fun.

Those two truths coexist within me. Either, both, or neither of them may surface as what serves me on any given day. In other words:

• Sometimes I am not lazy and also not preoccupied with taking restorative care of my body beyond what I consider “average” for someone who is able-bodied. There is no real conflict here.
• Sometimes, I feel physically unable, but my brain feels pressure for me to do, do, DO. In cases like these, I have to listen very carefully so that I give my body the breaks and restoration it needs.
• Other times, I feel physically able but am mentally lazy: I know I can do it with no negative repercussions, but I just don’t want to. It’s days like this that I just need to get over myself already.
• And still other times, I feel lazy but also recognize that underneath it, there’s a real issue with my body going through a vigorous practice. At times like these, I need to recognize the superficial laziness for what it is but also honor the deeper need to be gentler with myself.

The self-reflection comes from hearing these different needs, wants, and excuses from my body and deciphering which is which. The satya comes from adjusting my practice according to which voice is true today, regardless of which voices I hear loudest or most often.

Day 5: Yoga Journal’s Strengthen Your Core:

I don’t often use Yoga Journal videos because a lot of them tend not to make accommodations for larger bodies. In that light, this one is something of an exception. True, there are some portions — for instance, when the instructor recommends placing yoga blocks on the mat but so there is still hip clearance (there is no such place for me) — that still fit this description; however, I found that I was able to do most of the postures without modification — and the modifications I used were relatively straightforward (my blocks came off my mat to accommodate my hips; I moved on with my life).

[Video from Yoga Journal via YouTube.]

I might use this type of practice for any of the fist three Day 4 instances that I mentioned, depending factors like severity of pain or time issues. It’s intense, yes, but it’s also short. While this can be a bonus for me when I’m feeling fine and am just pressed for time, it can also be a way for me to compromise my conflicting body and mind truths. If I’m physically able but mentally lazy, sometimes a shorter time at a more intense practice is best for me. Similarly — or conversely? — if I’m mentally energetic but have limited stamina reserves, that same short but vigorous practice can let my drive feel validated without overly taxing my body.

I’m not suggesting that this asana practice is right for everyone 75% of the time; it’s not even right for me 75% of the time. I am, however, suggesting that it’s important for folks to find ways to balance the various needs of and demands on their bodies. This is one of mine; others are going to look a lot different according to individual abilities and needs. The important things are to listen to oneself and to be honest regarding the messages communicated.

Unwisely: Part 9

Yet another story continuation. Trigger warnings for relationship abuse and self harm.

I want to say we didn’t ignore it. And technically, we didn’t.

The first time we talked in person again, after that class, I said, “One good reason.”

He said, “There aren’t any.”

“Damn straight,” I replied.

But after that, in terms of ignoring it, we really did.

I want to say that we didn’t avoid talking about it. We didn’t pretend it never happened. We just didn’t dwell on it. But I know now that would be lying to myself.

I thought we could get past it. He was horrified when he did it, I thought — that he could keep himself in check for a while, that I could learn to see it coming. He didn’t; I did. Briefly, of course, we returned to a passing for normal, a place where we were both trying to hear and make ourselves heard.

We met for studying a lot because it was purposeful, platonic, safe. We had something neutral to talk about again where, even if we disagreed, we at least knew those disagreements were academic rather than personal. It’s a little safer to argue over whether Willy Loman is the most sympathetic character in Death of a Salesman because at some point, we felt silly arguing over imaginary people anyway.

Except talking about Death of a Salesman lends itself to talking about the concept of the American Dream, which leads to us dangerously discussing our own futures.

We were in a park, our first meeting without the pretense of schoolwork, though not the first meeting where we’d abandoned the pretense. My head rested on his chest, our bodies at right angles on the grass. For a long time, we just lay there in the sun and breeze, enjoying that the day was too dry for mosquitoes and too cool for flies. Cool snaps in summer are not unappreciated.

“It’s nice to be able to get out and actually be in a day that looks beautiful, you know?” he asked. “Like in summer sometimes it looks beautiful, especially, like, at the beach. Only it’s way too hot to actually enjoy spending much time there.”

“Or in the winter,” I agreed, “when you see the sun sparkling on some clean snow, and it looks like it would be a fabulous idea to go for a walk or have a snowball fight. Then you get there and remember that snow is both cold and wet. Even if you go back inside right away — which, sometimes, you have to be out shoveling snow or whatever — it takes forever to get warm and dry again, especially if your socks get stuck inside your boots while you’re taking them off.”

“I like the cold,” he protested, laughing. “You can always put on more clothes to get over being cold, but you can’t get less dressed than naked. And a lot of places even frown on going that far.”

I turned over to face him, propping myself on my elbows. “Though there’s sometimes a limit to the amount of clothes you have with you. And when it’s happening, I hate being cold way more than being hot.”

“I’d like to move north of here someday, I think.”

“Greenland, here you come!” I joked.

He rolled his eyes. “A little extreme, but somewhere that doesn’t get hot-hot and that’s farther away from big cities. Buy a bunch of land, plop a house in the middle of it, not have to deal with so many damn people all the time.”

“Far away from everyone in the cold?” I smiled. “That sounds like lots of snow to shovel, icy socks, and not my idea of a good time.”

He closed his eyes. “You’d get used it it.”

“Who says I’d be there?” I bristled and drew back a little.

He opened one eye. “Let’s not start this again.”

“Start what?” I felt myself slipping. I may have sighed. “I’m just not into it when people make assumptions about what I will or won’t like or where I’m going to be one day.”

“Which is fine, but maybe you could tell me without being a bitch about it.”

For me, there has always been something about name calling. “You know what? I’m pretty sure I have to be anywhere else right now.” I stood up. “We can talk about this later.”

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back down. My arm grated inside my shoulder socket. “We can talk about this now.”

“That hurt,” I said.

He blinked, confused.

“We can talk about this later.”

Teacher Secrets 11

Cinderella image from Project Gutenberg via Wikimedia Commons. This image is public domain in the United States.

Dear parents, administrators, school board members, and the community at large:

I know you would like to see “teaching magic.”

But what you think of as “magic” is always, ALWAYS either:

• Working through a series of meaningfully arranged yet decidedly mundane and non-magical steps. You may have heard these referred to as “classwork” and “lessons.”
• A cheap trick.

The first is unimpressive in the case of a single observation, but it gets results. The second looks flashier but is effectively smoke and mirrors.

You have to decide which one you really want.

I’ll be waiting over here and grading papers,
Me

Teacher Secrets 10

I recognize that for some of you, I am not your first best chance at a high school education: I am your last.

And I take that very seriously.

Boys Call Me Things

Roses are red
lemons are sour.
Open your legs
and give me an hour.

These words, signed with a student’s name, neatly on my desk at the end of the school day.

(There is more to the story, including my response, but I don’t think I can tell it without getting into personally identifying info. Sadly, the rhyme itself appears common enough to not constitute anything personally identifying.)

Thoughts on a Word: Potential

Adjective — Capable of being or becoming.

Hi and welcome to my iliopsoas.

Overheard from a coach coworker (probably not about me): “She has potential as a runner, but she might have to slim down and tone up her frame in order to actualize it.”

Watched in the bathroom mirror: My ass round out behind my body as I checked that my shirt was smooth and the cup was containing the MenstroMonster.

Felt, every time I walk and run: My inner thighs rub together. Even on a non-active day, Body Glide is my friend. When wearing a skirt, it is my best friend.

Lived, today during my run: When needing to cross a trafficky intersection, my ass and thighs open up effortlessly to power me stronger and faster, then collect (to use an equestrian term) right back under myself for control.

In these round hips and thick thighs: There is potential there. Right now.

Obese Health Happens

I received an email today in what I think is a response to this post (maybe among others) from a couple of weeks ago. It reads:

I don’t think it’s responsible to say that the only thing we can tell about a person’s obesity is the definition of obesity. I know a lot of obese people who eat crap and don’t exercise enough. It’s undeniable that obesity is linked to bad health practices.

You say you’re healthy and aren’t completely sendentary. But it also sounds like you don’t wantch what you eat. You might not be too unhealthy now, but wouldn’t you be able to your yoga or running or whatever better if you did it while you were at a healthy smaller weight?

I don’t agree with hating on fat peple, but it’s not honest to say that obesity is healthy.

Why is it that when I’m upset or angry, my favorite thing to do is answer in numbered list form?

One, defining health as exercising enough and not eating “crap” is overly simplistic and limiting. For starters, this definition does not address chronic non-weight-induced physical conditions such as endometriosis, nerve damage, or pelvic floor dysfunction. Additionally, it doesn’t begin to tackle mental or emotional health issues like PTSD. Dear world, when talking about health, we can do better.

Two, yes, really, the only thing one can tell from the fact that a person is obese is that the ratio of their weight and height-squared meets the definition of obesity. Certainly, weight and BMI are sometimes correlated with other bits of information like diet and exercise patterns — I’m not saying that never happens — but the correlation is not perfect because they are separate factors. If one makes a judgment about a person’s health based on all three factors, that inherently means knowing more than a person’s weight. (Not that I am suggesting that we go around judging other people’s health. But I am sometimes in situations — say, with my nurse practitioner — where I consult her professional advice on the subject.)

Three, while I can’t speak for running, I can definitively say that no, I would not be able to practice yoga “better” if I were at a smaller weight. For starters, a crucial aspect of my current practice is being present with the body I have now. Regardless of how my weight might change — down or up — my practice doesn’t get better or worse based on that. Even without a mindfulness aspect, I’ve been my current size (of course), and I’ve also been smaller. For my own body, I have more strength, more flexibility, and more endurance at this higher weight.

Four, “healthy smaller weight” really hasn’t been true for me. I’m sure there’s some small variation, but basically, when I was at a significantly smaller weight, the activities I was engaging in to get and keep that body size weren’t healthy for me. While I’m sure some people do have “healthy smaller weight[s],” I’m also sure that for others, “healthy weight” and “smaller weight” are two distinct categories. And coming back to point one, if all I know about someone is their weight, then all I can tell about them is… their weight.

Five, what I would suggest is irresponsible and dishonest:

• Saying “health” when what you mean is beauty, attractiveness, or other comment on body appearance.
• Suggesting that any of those is best measured by the quotient of a number on a scale.

Tori in plank pose.

Unwisely: Part 5

Another continuation. Trigger warning for relationship violence and self harm.

We didn’t get to see each other a whole lot oat first, so we wrote notes and letters and poems. We talked on the phone too sometimes, but that was more to hear the other person’s voice than for having anything substantial to say. Mostly we wrote. It was almost like having a pen pal than a boyfriend.

Boyfriend. That word was new to me, at least as a legitimate label for anyone in my life. I’d had crushes before — boys and girls — and even boys I liked who liked me back. (I don’t know about girls liking me back: I grew up in a place where it wasn’t okay to have the feelings I did, so I didn’t talk about them.) But it was one thing to say, “I have these feelings, but I’m scared and socially awkward and don’t really know how to proceed,” and quite another to say, “All of the above is true, but fuck it, I’m going in anyway.”

In retrospect, it was not my most brilliant life move.

But I think it was because we wrote that we got so close — or thought we got so close — so quickly. In my letters, there was time to form the thoughts and words that always slip by me in spoken dialogue, when the conversation moves on and I have to move on with it. That said, there was also the finality of sending a letter in the mail, sending those words out into the world, not being able to take back what’s written on the page. I couldn’t laugh something off, turn a serious statement into a joke, or pretend I didn’t mean it.

So what are we now, you and me?

Classmates and acquaintances? I will be disappointed if that is all there is to us.

I won’t be disappointed if the answer is “friends,” but I think that is not quite right either. Not complete.

Are we different, or am I imagining?

It was hard to put up false fronts, sheen the veneer of sarcasm, duck behind a mask. It’s harder to commit to an untruth on paper, maybe especially for people who consider themselves writers, at least for both of us.

So we didn’t play games.

You are not imagining.

Already Doing

Note: I explicitly do not speak for anyone else here. My intent is to describe what is true for me, not to prescribe what should be true of anyone.

Because one too many people has, directly or once removed, called me lazy or delusional today.

When I say there’s nothing I can do in order to lose weight, it’s not because I’m lying to myself.

No, really. There is no me that eats McDonald’s every day while parked in front of the TV, then whines whines myself into victimhood when I don’t lose weight.

There is the me whose biggest consistent nutritional “vice” is my daily mug of black coffee — a mug which, by the way, you will pry from my cold dead hands. Well, that and the fact that I no longer count calories or Weight Watchers points but instead regard food as fuel for my life.

There is the me who wishes I had time to do a 75-minute yoga practice and a 5K every day and who feels a little bit sad when I have to choose one or the other.

There is the me who finds freedom and empowerment in enjoying my body and respecting it accordingly — aside from a clothing size or a number on a scale — until one too many jackasses pronounces me lazy and dishonest because I am fat.

Basically — all the steps a reasonable concern troll (just let that idea roll around in your brain for a bit) could expect me to take to facilitate weight loss? I am already doing.

Certainly, I could push it further engage in practices that are unreasonable and unhealthy for me in the name of pursuing weight loss, but — really? Is that what you want from me?

If so, you go ahead.

I’ll be over here, cooking and running and building exciting core yoga sequences and deflecting and refuting all the body policing that comes my way. You know, lazy things — the things I am already doing.

Teacher Secrets 6

Today I watched you break your mother’s heart.

Teacher Secrets 5

Yes, I take late work. Sometimes I even “forget” to reduce credit for it.

The ideal is that you submit fabulous work on time, yes. But — when the options in reality are late versus never — I would rather teach you to turn in work late versus not at all.

The SHEER WILLPOWER Diet

This post discusses fat shaming, dieting, and disordered eating patterns.

Recently at The Curvy Nerd, Alexa expressed her frustration with other Internet commenters who evangelize (and cast judgment) via the “sheer willpower” diet:

And, for the record, the SHEER WILLPOWER diet of which I speak is the imaginary one that Not Fat People tell us about: “Oh, don’t you know that all you have to do is eat less and exercise more? Put down the Big Mac!” Oh, jeeze, I didn’t know it was that simple!

And certainly, it did take a lot of willpower to restrict my caloric intake to an amount that was — while not low enough to constitute a starvation diet — was significantly lower than what my body needed to maintain reserves of physical stamina, mental concentration, and emotional stability. It took willpower to shun, in any amount, the foods I perceived as unhealthy. It took willpower to select exercise activities with the sole goal of calorie-burning efficiency rather than discovering and respecting my body’s needs and mind’s desires.

It took even more willpower to reorder my thinking to believe this was healthy. And it required a metric fuckton of the stuff to silence my doubts that I was happy in this life where I pinned my hopes on the slimness of my body.

But as Curvy Nerd commenter Robin pointed out:

One thing I think a lot of people don’t understand is that no matter what size you are, it takes a lot more willpower to accept yourself than it does to starve yourself. Denying onself food is easy, learning to have a healthy relationship with it is much, much harder.

It’s taken more willpower to experiment with exercise until I’ve found types I enjoy and negotiated ways to fit them into my daily or weekly routine. Yes, really — because it’s meant trying a variety of exercises that I don’t enjoy and giving myself enough time at each one to determine whether the culprit is the exercise or the unfamiliarity. It’s meant setting goals for myself that go beyond body measurements.

It’s taken more willpower to give myself permission to eat or not eat a food as I want — to refuse to guilt myself for it afterward, to untangle myself from assigning morality to foods.

It’s taken more willpower to deconstruct the bodies I see represented as normal and good television, movies, and advertisements. To realize that when a very narrow range of body sizes is presented as all of the bodies that we’re going to label “good” — it’s an artificial standard that a lot of people have a stake in perpetuating. To try to remove myself as a stakeholder on a daily or hourly basis — that takes even more willpower.

Even with that revelation, it’s taken two metric fucktons of willpower to stop judging other people’s bodies — to check myself and try again whenever I fuck up and body-shame. It takes three metric fucktons when that body is my own.

On my computer right now this instant, there are seven different articles and ads reminding me of all the ways society and consumerism wants to tell me that my body is not good enough. It takes SHEER WILLPOWER to tell them to fuck off.

Teacher Secrets 4

When you say, “I forgot it at home, but it’s finished, I swear!”

I do realize that sometimes it is a lie.

But the answer is, “Bring it tomorrow,” either way.

So why fight?

This isn’t the title I remember.

This post discusses domestic violence.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

I should write.

I’m scared to write. (Of memories, not for anything happening in my life now.)

I thought of copying a story I wrote years ago. It’s good; it’s relevant.

I can’t find what I did with the computer copy.

I found a handwritten copy in a composition book. It’s the story, but this isn’t the title I remember. Which may mean this is a working copy, or it may mean I remember the working title better than the final.

The date tells me it’s not the first draft. And the opening line confirms, unerringly, that this is the right story. A decade later, that line still haunts me.

But I know this isn’t going to be a simple matter of cut and paste. My writing then wasn’t as strong as my writing now, and this is possibly not even the strongest version of my writing then.

I’m going to have to re-read this story. I’m going to have to re-work it, re-write it, re-live it. It’s going to be especially awkward in a blog because odds are good I will go back to edit at least one post days after I make it.

And it’s going to hurt.

But that’s okay. Because the hurt is in the past and the awkwardness is inconvenience and what matters now is that it’s a story worth telling.

And it is.

Teacher Secrets 3

Sometimes I call home the day before the paper is due so that I don’t have to call home the day after.

I think it’s my soleus.

This is one of those stories where someone — lots of someones, actually — told me I couldn’t do something — in this case, a standing split balance pose — and then I went ahead and did it anyway. This is also one of those stories where I discover I have an attachment to being right and to smugness (my own, not other people’s). This is also a story about shoes.

I’ve been working with various expressions of standing split for maybe 7 or 8 years. First it was about getting my hamstrings to loosen up: they’re generally quite obliging about this sort of thing. Then it was about developing the core strength to open my heart center enough to start thinking about balancing (entering the pose with both hands on my standing ankle rather than on the ground). Now — and for the past 4 years or so — it’s been about playing with balancing. And, you know, not falling on my face. Because that would kind of hurt.

While trying the standing split with one hand on the ground, I’ve been offered a few reasons why I’ve had extended trouble moving into the balance:

1. My core muscles aren’t strong enough to stabilize the rest of my body.
2. My core muscles might be strong, but there’s too much weight to be supported over one ankle.
3. My center of gravity is too variable. Since fat jiggles, my torso is not as still in the pose compared to the torso of someone with less fat.

At one point, a teacher at a studio I visited told me to “accept that it’s never going to happen.”**

I believed these for years. Not only that this pose might be more difficult for me than for someone of a smaller frame (which may well be true) and that it was unreasonable for me to try to attain it (something I know is downright false).

But really? I think the physical weakness has been my soleus this whole time.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been going about my day-to-day life in minimalist shoes (I’m not going to claim they’re magic for everyone, but they work well for my body), which try to approximate what life would be like in bare feet — and which consequently strengthen the muscles of the lower legs, feet, and ankles. In particular, I’ve noticed the muscles in the lower halves of my calves becoming noticeably stronger, meaning, I am now aware they actually do things.

Like help me balance on one ankle.

For years, I struggled with this balancing standing split, and I thought the problem was in one of the so-called “problem areas” of my body — my hips, my core, my boobs. I had been told this, with varying degrees of certainty, by people who are more generally knowledgeable about yoga and anatomy than I am.

If the explanations — the pose was unattainable because of my body size or fat — had turned out to be true, I would have worked to accept it. But this is not the truth.

The truth is that the more upper areas of my body — my thighs and my core — may have been strong enough for a while and are certainly strong enough now. I feel the change in my lower calves and ankles, the muscles that are now creating the stable base for the pose. While I’m still getting used to this new-found base, I find that I am repeatedly able to hold the pose for a minimum of six to eight breaths — enough to tell me this is not a fluke.

It is possible the “fat parts” of me have been strong enough the entire time. It is possible that the weaker parts were the parts that were made weak by conforming to gendered fashion expectations. It is possible that everything I’ve been told about what the weight of my body “can’t” do is a lie.

No, I don’t expect that’s true for everything I’ve been told, but I welcome the adventure of being proven wrong.

** I think there are relevant philosophical difference between accepting that it’s never going to happen and essentially being told to give up. And I believe learning to accept limitations is a meaningful spiritual practice. However, given the instructor’s tone and the way she treated her older students (i.e., ones with visible wrinkles) and me (the only fat student) throughout the class leads me to believe her intention was the latter.

Teacher Secrets 2

Sometimes, when you’re writing notes instead of taking notes, I surreptitiously read over it across the desk, a few words at a time, to figure out what’s going on. (Yes, I can read upside down.) When I conclude that you’re writing an apology letter to your best friend, I give you three more minutes to finish up before reminding you to get back to work.