Staring at the errant hair beneath my nose, I cannot help
but wonder how I ended up here.
I know how I got here.
A friend with the very best intentions convinced me I would
like it, and so here I am desperately trying to overcome the collateral damage
that has threaded itself through my body and my psyche and fighting to ignore the
gaping hole shot through my heart and the insecurity that suffocates me. My
first night in the box was painful, at best, despite being in the company of
familiar faces.
Because in the lost years I have changed. Irreversibly.
Caught between a mother’s guilt, a career that has no give
and that singularity that is my daily existence, this box is my prison and my
escape route from my own inadequacies. I’ve forced myself back, despite my
discomfort, searching between the bars and the plates and the bands and the
ropes for myself. I’ve fought back the tears listening to the cutting remarks played
back in my mind and replayed all of the responses I hold back when I am reminded
that I am alone and undesirable. I listen to the others joke and push each
other on and I wonder when I will feel the same freedom. I struggle against
fears I never had before. Where others take risks, I don’t. And the more I
think about it, the more my chest seizes in the all-too-familiar vise of fear
of falling with nothing to save me.
Yet, for the first time something deep inside and long
forgotten pushes me back. I squeeze and wiggle myself into a Batman-esque layer
of sports-bra-and-lycra that ensures all the body parts that I am displeased
with stay put for the duration, and I walk blindly through the doors to find
out what is on the pain and suffering menu for the evening.
I love it.
Staring at the hair as I force myself through the burpees
that I despise and that are simply one of many indignities that the petite and
perfectly sculpted owner-slash-coach is treating us to tonight, I am focused on
one thought.
Are my nipples pointing in the same direction?
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