Elle

Sweat is dripping in my eyes and my muscles are shaking. I have to stop for a second – just a quick pause – to regain my focus.

“Don’t stop – you got this!” the blonde coach yells at me. He claps a couple times.  “It WILL end, just remember that.”

I suck in my breath and brace myself for 1o more air squats. My glutes are burning, and the girl next to me is grunting about how hard this exercise is. She doesn’t know it, but she’s motivating me. I may not be the first person in the group to finish this round of exercise, but I sure as hell won’t be the last.

Sweat runs down the side of my cheek and puddles on the ground. Keep going.

The lady next to me is counting down her squats too. After this, we have to sprint across a field and then do lunges. But not just any lunges. Lunges where you get into position, jump straight up and switch leg positions (front to back, back to front) in midair, and come back down. And repeat, 20 times over.

This is my first foray into the world of Crossfit, and I love it.

The competition element of it ignites something inside me. With a crowd of people around me all doing the same thing, I’m driven to push myself that much harder. To do the very best I’m able to do at the fitness level I’m at today. But this competition is unique – because it’s also a team. When one person is left trying to finish an exercise, everyone else stops to call out words of encouragement.

Finally, the workout is done. People collapse in the shade, catching their breath, sipping on water bottles. Personally, I take a few deep breaths and try to concentrate on not throwing up. It’s a horrible feeling, but also a good one, because I know I’ve earned the right to be exhausted. Mental note – lunch will henceforth be eaten at my desk postworkout.

Tomorrow will be my second Crossfit workout, followed by two more sessions on Wednesday and Thursday.

I can’t stinking wait.

You can follow me on Twitter @PFG_Elle

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sil·hou·ette/ˌsilo͞oˈet/

I’m the last person up, and it’s late. Too late. The rest of my email will have to wait for tomorrow. I close my laptop and stretch, then gather my heels in my hand and start turning off the lights around me. Another stretch. Wipe the sleep from eyes and pull out the pins holding my hair away from my face. Pad quietly across the living room toward the hallway with the bedrooms.

I turn into the hallway and take a mental photo of the distance from where I am to my bedroom door just before reaching to flip off the last light. And it’s right then that I happen to look up and see a silhouette in the glass of a large frame at the end of the hallway.

My silhouette.

For just a moment, my brain disagrees with my eyes. Not my body. Can’t be, but sure enough, it is. Gentle hourglass like curves hugged by a navy blue high-wasted skirt and keyhole blouse are faintly visible. Upon closer inspection, those curves wouldn’t be nearly as attractive, marred by stretch marks and cellulite and veins and skin that just isn’t as tight it was once upon a time. But here, in the forgiving darkness, those curves are perfect enough.

I’d forgotten, you know. Forgotten what it was like when I didn’t have those curves and didn’t feel very much like a woman. And I smile to myself because I realize that as nice as it is to have them now, there will come a day when I don’t have them anymore. Physical appearance is fleeting after all. Age will take that hourglass away, figuratively as much as literally, and I’ll be left with who I really am.

And who I really am – I’m still figuring that out. But I’m closer now to the answer.

The weight loss was just the beginning. A catalyst, in many ways, because once I figured out that I could tackle weight, that I wasn’t powerless against it, I started discovering other things I could take on too. My attitude. My relationships. My character. What was I living for? What motivated me? What did I really enjoy? Who was I apart from my disordered eating? And what about the whole rest of the world? How can I serve them with my time instead of using it to brood over myself?

And then there’s this other thing. This fear, that I never really named, of men. The truth is, I used to feel a crippling discomfort and shame under their glances. And it was because I wasn’t comfortable with who I was. Not just the size part, but the whole thing. All of me. A million insecurities that all took the form of worry. What if I’m not smart enough? Not stable enough? Funny enough?

See, the weight was just the most obvious problem. The most visible.

But we grow when we overcome difficult things, and if we’re lucky, we learn. We observe our past and our patterns, make changes where it’s necessary and when it is possible, and little by little, we accept.

One more look at the silhouette. Committing it to memory, and turning out the light.

You can follow me on Twitter @PFG_Elle

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