Mental Gymnastics

The first time I felt uncomfortable in my body was in a gymnastics class at 5 years old. I was shorter than the other girls, with arms that didn’t stretch as far and thighs that rubbed when I did my bend-to-bridge kick overs. My body wasn’t straight and light like the others. Mine didn’t prance around and flip in the air like a feather. I wasn’t able to do a backflip on my own; surely it was because of my broken body. I’d meet my mom with my defeated look and check out at the front desk after I got a participation stamp on my feet. There hung the uniforms of the feather girls, with diagonal stripes on studded extra small suits. But, this day, there was a new leotard displayed. One of soft black velvet with smooth long sleeves. I can remember thinking, “If I can just get that suit, the black would thin me, the arms would cover me, and I would become the feather gymnast of my dreams.” Eventually, I did get that long-sleeved suit, which was altogether too tight for me, and broke my arm a week later. Guess feathering wasn’t in my future. 

I tried out ice skating, volleyball, and a breath of tennis before I swore off sports for good. No one will have to be weighed down by the stubby girl anymore. I’d pick something less dependent. 

And so that became my leotard, my independence. To burrow and push if anyone came too close. To buckle up and buckle down, and show the feathers I could be one too if I really wanted. 

My suit was black, with long sleeves, and I walked into the spotlight with arms numb and head dizzy from restriction, and I played my concert well to show them what I was made of... or what I’d lost. 

And I bowed my head to thank them, 

but I’ve always been good at mental gymnastics.