Before long, I find myself doing something called downward dog. I don't know how to describe this in skinny terms, or what it is meant to accomplish. For me, it just means to bend over and put your palms on the floor in front of you, trying not to fall on your face while hanging your boobs in front of your own face and sticking your butt up in the air, hoping no one notices how big it is. My shoulders ache a little under the weight of my body, and my heels don’t touch the floor like some of the other women.
"How you holding up?" Renee whispers, turning her head easily to look over at me.
I turn to answer her, which allows sweat to roll into my eye, and she giggles when I try to wink the sweat out. I'm suffocating under my own breasts and my svelte sister thinks it's cute. Gosh, I just wish we could do this every day.
I miss Claire. And Kayla. They might be the nastiest two girls at work, but I'm thinking they are definitely easier than stupid downward dog.
Just when I think it can't get harder, the instructor lazily drops her hips, keeping her arms extended, and she swings one long skinny leg underneath her body. She calls this the low lunge. Like a fool, my mouth falls open when I've barely gotten into the position, and as one, the class raises their arms skyward, still in the lunge position.
I push off, and as I raise my hands up, I feel my balance beginning to teeter dangerously. Now I'm annoyed, dropping my hands lightly back to my mat to try again. This one moment makes me determined to come back, to master this challenge, to be able to create these simple poses with my body that the other women seem to be doing with ease.
Finally, we drop back to the mats and after working the same sequence on the other leg, we switch into a cool-down, which is stressful for me because all the other women seem to know the sequence by heart, and the instructor is no longer calling poses. I follow Renee's lead as she whispers directions to me, encouraging me to finish.
"We're almost done," she whispers to me. "You did great, see? It wasn't so bad. Child's pose." She curls her legs under her, folding herself over and placing her forehead on the mat in front of her knees. Her feet are tucked neatly under her rear, and she slides her hands back to rest beside her feet.
She looks so neat and tidy, folded up on the floor of the studio, effortlessly in the middle of her sky blue yoga mat. When I try the pose, the last thing I feel is effortless. I can't stop thinking my legs are too big, which causes my butt to stick up too far in the air. I can't lay flat on my thighs like the others because my stomach is in the way, and when I slide my arms down so that my hands are beside my feet, my rear comes up farther and I begin to feel like my body is a giant watermelon, trying to balance on the tip of a pea. The pressure of my forehead on the floor is anything but relaxing.
The rest of the sequence is nice though. There's a pose where we're all lying on our backs, with the bottoms of our feet touching and our thighs opened, knees hanging at various degrees; my knees float a bit away from the floor. Looking over, I can see that Renee's knees are slightly closer to the floor than mine are. The woman beside me has her legs so relaxed that her knees are nearly touching the floor, and I briefly wonder how her hips manage to open up in that way.
"You did it!" Renee says again, and I smile back at her as we stretch our legs long and simply relax on our mats for a while. Sitting up gracefully and bouncing to her feet, she pretends not to notice as I awkwardly crawl to a standing position. We roll up our mats, and when I stand, the instructor is there beside us. The blonde from the parking lot, of course.
"I'm so glad you came today, Renee has been telling us all how much she wanted your company in class," she gushes, sticking her hand out. I take it and give her the expected shake.
"I'm glad I came too," I say, though I'm not sure if I really mean that or not.
"Well, I hope you come again, you really did a great job!" She bounces off, greeting and speaking to other women in the class, and all I can do is stand there in disbelief.
She thinks I did great? Didn't she see me? Oh my God, was she watching me?
"Come on," Renee says, and this time she doesn't need to tug me anywhere. I've had a decent time, if I'm honest with myself, and I really am planning to come back and try it again. But for right now, all I want is to get out of here.
Chapter Fourteen
As usual, I'm looking forward to my therapy session with Dr. Caswell. In light of what a relationship with a patient would do to his career, I've forced myself to cool my behavior toward him. I don't think I'm being cold, and he doesn't seem to have noticed the difference, it's just that I'm making sure I don't send out any sort of "available" signals. Whether he's noticed the change in me or not, he has acted in kind without mentioning anything, and we've settled into a rather friendly routine.
I really do like him as my therapist, and from the little that I know about him, I like him as a person. My being attracted to him temporarily was silly, and honestly, I just don't know what came over me. Since the conversation I had with my sisters about it, I haven't noticed the same level of heat when I'm in his office at all.
Except for when the patient before me runs late. I first saw him weeks ago, but I didn't notice him as much as I would have otherwise, because he was overshadowed by my little crush on Dr. Caswell. I don't see him every time I'm here, but occasionally, I'm walking in and signing the register, chatting with Ms. Caswell at her desk, and this guy comes walking out of Dr. Caswell's little conversation spot.
I've never seen this guy look happy, though the sadness that radiates out from him only serves to make him look more darling to me. He isn't the classic sexy man; his eyes are green with flecks of grey, and his dark hair is flecked with a little silver too. I like it for some reason; it makes him look full of life and experience, though his face is still very young.
His build is average; he is not soft by any means, but he's not as muscular as I tend to like. Still, I can't help wondering what he does for a living. He's obviously in great shape, the kind of good physical fitness that only comes from a physical job or a serious athletic hobby. I've noticed him multiple times, and because we run into each other so often, he doesn't seem quite so horrified by my seeing him in the office anymore. Each time I see him, he looks at me a little longer than before, and I just can't shake the thought that I know him from somewhere.
The last time I saw him, his eyes were a little red as he pressed by me on the way out, but he did toss me a quick grin as he went, simply because we've become somewhat accustomed to seeing each other here. Today, his eyes are clear, and though he still wears the heaviness of whatever brings him here, he looks okay. I don't know why, but this lifts my spirits some, maybe because it reinforces my faith in Dr. Caswell.
Anyway, today the nameless other patient is running late again, and as I scoot over to let him pass me, my purse slips from my shoulder and falls to my feet. Hoping the perfume bottle I keep in there hasn't broken, I immediately drop to my knees, without realizing that the mystery patient has lowered himself, too.
He laughs a little, and I immediately feel comforted by the quiet, shy sound of his laugh. He hands me a lip gloss that has rolled away, looking at the label curiously.
"Thanks," I whisper, not understanding why I feel so nervous. Have I met him before? Why does he feel familiar to me?
"You're welcome," he answers, and then he's gone and the moment is over. Stuffing the gloss back into my purse and straightening my dress, I clear the lump in my throat and walk through the still-open door that leads from the waiting room to Dr. Caswell's comfortable little office.
"Well, hi there!" he exclaims. He's still at his desk, and I freeze in the doorway.
"Are you ready for me, or should I take a seat for a few minutes out here?" I ask, gripping my purse straps a little more snugly in my hesitation.
"No, no you're fine," he says, waving for me to come in and shut the door. "I hope you don't mind me running late a little bit lately. Appointments are scheduled by the clock, but it's rare that a patient finds he
aling according to perfect schedule."
"I don't mind at all," I say, smiling as I curl up on the couch. "Actually, I really admire your dedication. It's nice to know that if I needed a few extra minutes, you'd have them for me."
"Well," he laughs. "I'm legally bound not to care too much for my patients, but it's a hard line to walk, and I find myself crossing it here and there, when I have a patient with a story that grips me, or a patient with a personality that just clicks. Sometimes you get along so easily with one person or another that it's tough to maintain the right professionalism. It's hard to be completely objective when this room is full of other peoples' memories, memories that I've been trusted to hold sacred."
"And do you always live up to the trust?" I ask, cocking my head over as he finishes his preparations and walks over to place his recorder on the coffee table.
"Yes, always," he answers. "It's very important to me, the way my patients believe in me, the trust that is given to me. In the position I'm in, it is of utmost importance to remember my place and to carefully judge the emotional line. It's an individual thing; no patient is like any other patient, even when their problems are much the same."
"So, tell me about the reunion," he says, changing the subject and officially beginning my session. "What is it that you call your brother? 'Rick the Dick?' How was your encounter with him?"
I laugh because it's still funny to me the way he does that, the way he adopts my individual names for people in order to relate to how I'm feeling about them.
"I actually had a great time," I say, kicking off my sandals and pulling my feet up next to me. Leaning against the arm of the couch, I smooth the fringes of the throw pillow I'm always playing with.
"Is that so?" he asks. "And here you were, so terrified that you couldn't do it! What helped you the best?"
"Actually, I carried my list of quotes like you suggested, but I didn't end up needing them. I listened to self-empowering music on the drive over, and then I sort of, well," I stammer, trying to think of the right words. "Have you ever heard the saying 'fake it till you make it?'"
Ha laughs. "Of course! Who hasn't? And did that help you?"
"It did help, actually, a lot more than I expected. I sort of pulled up at the house, got out of the car, and put on someone else's personality. Someone stronger, more confident. By the end of the day, it felt like a natural behavior for me, walking through the house and not caring who was looking at me. Speaking to Rick and not really caring what he was thinking. When I left, I actually had to remind myself that it was safe to drop the barrier, and that I was alone and could be myself again."
I continued on, watching Dr. Caswell as he watched me. "I sort of used the strategy of beating him to the punch, you know?"
"Beating him to the punch?" he leaned forward into his signature pose, elbows on his knees, his hands hanging relaxed.
"Yeah. He always used to love walking up and surprising me by saying something mean, right from the start. So I kind of was mean before he could be, cracking jokes about myself."
"And how did that feel?" I'm not sure he likes what I've done; he's raised one eyebrow and is looking at me a little oddly. Linking his fingers together, he waits.
"Honestly? It felt really good. I was going to hear vile things about the way I looked all day anyway, you know, he wasn't going to let up, and I could tell from the beginning. He greeted me by asking if I'd decided to come eat with the skinny people or something like that, and I just needed to shut him down before he could get going, you know?"
I ran my fingers through my hair, and forced myself to keep going. "So I made sure to get the cracks in before he could, and I was so surprised by how good it actually felt."
"It felt good to make fun of yourself?" he asks, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.
"Not necessarily," I answer, insecurity blooming up inside me all over again. I pull the pillow from under my arm and hug it to my lap. "What felt good was taking him by surprise, watching his expression change as I took away his power to hurt me."
"Well!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together as if I've just finished an impossible ballet. "Congratulations, then. And how have you felt since then? Is your confidence higher? Lower? Do you feel more sense of self-pride?"
"I really do. I've even started going with my sister to her yoga class," I say, nodding my head. I'm proud of myself, but at the same time, I'm embarrassed that I needed him to be my cheerleader, that I allowed myself to sink so low. I'm embarrassed that it took him what seems like no time at all to bring me back up, and now I'm more cheerful than I've been in a long time.
I feel like a part of me has grown up and maybe that's why I felt so horribly large before. It feels like my inner child was still looking out at the world from behind my adult face, seeing a too-old face and a too-large body that are totally wrong and misplaced in my mirror. As if I somehow have failed to fit, not just into the world, but into my own reflection.
Acknowledging how hurt I was as a young adult, and taking steps to heal those wounds, leaves me feeling almost as if I've grown into myself in some way, and because of this, I haven't felt quite so fat lately, though my weight has not changed other than the generally expected fluctuations. This sense of rightness in myself means the world to me, and when I tell Dr. Caswell I’m feeing better, I say it honestly, knowing that I mean it.
Chapter Fifteen
"Oh no," I mutter, walking a little faster. I've just finished my therapy appointment, and I'm supposed to meet with Renee for yoga, so I'm in a little hurry. I need to get home and change so I can get to the studio on time, but as I walk up, I notice that one of the tires on my car is totally flat.
I've never changed a tire. I mean, I have a spare, but I don't know if I can lift it because I've never had to. I have a jack but I'm not terribly sure how to work it, and I don't have a clue how to work a lug nut.
"Thank heavens for roadside assistance." As I pull my cell phone out of my purse, I squat down next to the tire to see if I can tell why it's flat. With everything in my hands though, I can't really see, so I stand up and unlock my car, throwing my phone into my purse and my purse into the seat.
"Okay, let's see what there is to tell, and then I guess I'll have to call and just deal with spending the roadside money. Arrrgghh," I grumble to myself, slamming the car door and walking back to squat next to the tire again. Grimacing because I'm about to have nasty hands, I gingerly run my palm over the tread of the tire, trying to find a screw or nail, a cut, something that will explain the flat.
As I find the head of a nail buried to the hilt in my tread, the car beside me shrilly announces the arrival of it's owner, and the sound surprises me. I jump, and my fingers slip over the back edge of the tread, where my palm finds the tip of the nail sticking out from the side of the tire. Since I'm already jerking back in surprise, it doesn't really shock me when I feel the skin of my palm rip open, though it burns and is, of course, painful.
"Dammit," I mutter, holding my hand away from myself so it won't bleed on my dress. I guess I'll be skipping yoga today for sure. It doesn't look too bad though.
"Can I help you?" Spinning around, I forget the injury to my hand as I come face to face with the other patient from Dr. Caswell's office.
"Um," I stammer, my eyebrows coming together. What is he doing here? How has he not left yet?
"I know," he laughs. "This seems to be happening a lot huh?"
"Yeah, it definitely does," I answer nervously, still stupidly holding my bloody hand out because I have nowhere to put it. He notices my hand, and there is an instant change in his demeanor; the troubled but easygoing guy vanishes completely, and suddenly the man before me is all business.
"What happened to your hand?" he asks, stepping forward to take hold of my wrist.
"I had a flat," explain. "There's a nail in my tire, and I found it right when you must have hit your key fob or something. Kind of surprised me, I guess. I was just going to call roadside."
"Oh, t
hey take forever," he says, pulling a roll of gauze from his pocket and ripping into the plastic. Who the heck keeps gauze in their pockets?
"Why don't you let me help?" he asks, as he tears a strip from the gauze and uses it to press into my palm. Gasping at the pain, I can't seem to do anything but stare at him. Gauze? In his pockets? Who is this guy? He's finished blotting, and is now wrapping my hand, tucking the ends of the gauze neatly under the very fresh and professional looking improvised bandage.
"Help?" I ask, trying to remember what he was talking about. His green eyes have locked with my dark ones; he's still gently holding my wrist in his hands, and suddenly, there isn't enough air around me.
"With your tire?" He can see the effect he's had on me; he winks, and his mouth widens and curves into a lazy grin. "Roadside will take a while to get here, and they can't fix the tire anyway."
Fat Chance Page 8
