I went to Pilates last week and did single leg push ups on a light spring. Every muscle in my 40-year-old body screamed, beads of sweat collecting on the reformer bench below. I also felt like I could die and that I was the toughest bitch in the world. The instructor stopped at my station and said, “Anna, you are so strong!”
This is not meant to be a boast. I mean maybe it’s a little. Maybe that’s the point of this story – I’m a middle-aged woman who loves to do flying splits. we are so many My social media feeds are full of slightly reluctant women apologizing but they’ve deadlifted 100kg, or held a new yoga pose, or won their netball final, or swum farther than ever.
Every muscle in my 40 year old body was screaming.Recognition:one
The good feeling of sharing is almost as hard-won as the achievement itself. Inside, even in my overpriced knee-high leggings, I’m still a girl in 9th grade gym class, waiting to hear how exactly I’m going to suck today.
I really liked sports. That only occurred to me as an adult, when I was finally allowed to love myself. I’ve played and even looked forward to everything from cricket to basketball. Saturday mornings were often spent in the fog on a half-frozen soccer field, yelling at friends-turned-teammates, planning a game, tearing down the line. After that, bruised from knees to ankles from handprints, a sausage roll and a Gatorade came out of the kiosk and the heartbreaking feeling of winning or losing.
None of that mattered. In the ’90s, there were few acceptable ways to be a girl. Every magazine cover featured models in low-rise jeans with sunken cheekbones. Body positivity movements were still decades away, and my own body was a soft, curved body with a BO problem.
Going to gymnasium was a frightening mystery. Anything can happen: big balls, small balls, round balls, oblong balls. It could capture the flag or run laps, or it could be weighed in front of your enemies. Or in the worst case, a tennis court lined with orange cones – the beep test that just failed, but at ever shorter intervals.
Going to gym class was a terrifying mystery… Twice a week we tried to master a brand new skill while the whole class watched.Recognition:`
Nobody encouraged you to play to your strengths. Twice a week we tried to master a brand new skill while the whole class watched. In summer it might be the added shame of bringing a note to please excuse you from swimming, which the teacher might also read aloud to the class for reasons I’m sure made sense to them at the time. We were taught to be ashamed of our efforts—our mistakes.
With each passing year, I became convinced not only that I was bad at sports, but that it would be disgusting to try. Trying to be good at something? Above all?
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