Tonight was my favorite "Rough 'N Tough" aerobics class. The instructor, Arik, likes to make the class grunt and we like to grunt. We all follow him up the aggression face of Work Out Mountain- punching, kicking, grunting, sweating to so much techno and then he turns on the slow version of "When Doves Cry" and we glide down the other face, Tibetan monk face. I feel like a lotus flower when we end. Sean likes my aerobics class too, because I physically abuse him mostly sometimes now instead of totally always.
This class is a part of my plan to be a better Jess. For the last year or so, I’ve been trying to look at my body and think kind things instead of berating myself for not sculpting thinner legs or growing better hair. In the beginning of this whole talking to myself thing, I had to scream a flat, stiff blanket of semi-genuine niceties over the rambling breaks in my self-confidence. Now, I really mean it.
Sometimes in bed, I'll lift my legs up so they're perpendicular to the bed and say, “Holy crap, you guys keep me going on the city sidewalks, weaving me between fast bicycles and slow girls in heels. You take me out of bed in the morning and sink me into baths at night. You run me places when I’m excited and absorb my springing joy at concerts. Awesome.”
To my arms, I say, “Yo arms, thanks for reaching books on tall shelves and wrapping yourselves around the people I like a lot.
To my mid, “Shout out to the tummy for anchoring my body and keeping my back strong. Thanks for the balance. Nice job with all the guys, boobs.”
It didn't used to be this way. Allow me to make an excuse for myself by sharing with you a snippet of my highschool graduation. The superintendent, Dr. Sabatella, read out the names of my graduating class,“Gina Danitella, Angelina Dennabella, Lisa Donatucci, Michelangela Fabiwasborninitalymonapoli, Jessica Farris, Daniella Ferrario…” Perhaps you’ve deduced that in this crowd, your hair could not be dark or shiny enough, your boobs not copious and your butt un-apple-like. My innocent reflection withstood years of unfair comparisons. I tugged my hair straight and I plumped and thinned my limbs through binges and diets.
For the last year or so, I’ve also been trying to see a cheeseburger as a delicious and simple mixing of beef, bread and cheese rather than a fat, juicy ticket to self-loathing. I know a cheeseburger is a cheeseburger but, to me, it feels a lot like an ugly hook-up I brought back from the bar. I lay in bed the morning after and still feel the stare of the cheeseburger’s squinty eyes; its toenails are unclipped, it has plaque, gingivitis and an unfortunate mushroom cut, and the filthy memory of our merging is with me long after it’s gotten up to put on its blue jeans and split. No matter how many times I tell myself before sleep that it was okay to eat it, okay to treat myself, okay to mess up a little, I still wake up and smell its breath. I’m haunted and unforgiving. I’m working on that.
In the meantime, my new favorite thing about being healthy is the power felt when completing 15 regular push-ups when 2 weeks ago I could only do 10.
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