31. Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter 31
Leslie
I ’d been practicing yoga moves at home with Dot for six weeks to get ready for her first class back as an instructor. I had only a fraction of the flexibility and strength she’d honed over years. But I improved day by day, especially in my arms. And that was only possible because of the beginner modifications she demonstrated.
As we walked into the studio, her students clapped and swarmed around, giving her hugs and saying how glad they were to have her back. I lingered in the rear, my usual route to unobtrusive observation. That was how I noticed the crew of three women whispering to themselves and shooting nasty glances toward Dot’s admirers.
I ambled over to listen.
“This is bullshit. How can they just switch instructors like this? I mean, look at her. She’s as big as a house.”
“If you have that much cellulite, you shouldn’t be wearing spandex.”
“They shouldn’t MAKE spandex in that size. Christ, it’s an abomination.”
“Should we complain? Or stay for the laughs?”
“Ugh. You two can stay. I’m leaving.”
A rail-thin blond passed me, her ponytail swaying like a windshield wiper against the yoga mat slung over her tense shoulder. Her companions looked torn. They’d obviously come to move their bodies. What difference did the shape of the instructor make?
They shrugged and sheepishly made their way out, but not before giving me a hard look up and down with a disgusted expression.
Good riddance.
I rolled out my borrowed mat and watched the room’s hubbub reflected in the mirrored wall at the front of the room. Women moved around the studio in all manner of yoga outfits, including someone wearing an identical set to mine.
Hold up.
That’s me.
My 5’4” frame had filled in, leaving me stronger and thicker as I stood with my legs hip distance apart. Speaking of hips, I had some. Along with an amazing rack.
No wonder Risto had been luxuriating in my boobs. I wanted to myself, despite being in public.
I migrated to the side of the room, where the mirrored walls joined in a corner. On closer inspection, all was not awesome. The spandex clung to my new curves and foreign physique. I’d always had a pear shape, and flesh gently bulged over where my elastic waistband rested at my waist. I’d been floating in such positivity that I expected the body housing my newfound confidence and vigor to be… smaller.
I ran a hand over my stomach. Mom raised me to believe that strength, beauty, and success required living in a lean frame. How was it possible for me to feel this good, yet look so lumpy?
Icy tingles shot down my back at a shocking realization.
The hostile glance I got from those bitchy yoga gals wasn’t for Dot.
It was for me.
Anyone familiar with journalist Leslie Allen could certainly see the pounds I’d gained, courtesy of my closely monitored eating regimen over the last three months. The rest of it was muscle from my regular exercise, which included long walks twice daily with Pepper, plus home yoga. Old me would have been visualizing a smaller me, carving off fat like I was made of gray clay. Toxic thinking, for sure. New me was strong, slept well, and had enough energy for stupendous sex with my hunky man. I chit-chatted with strangers in the park, free of judgment about my body, or theirs, for that matter. That was another surprising development. I hadn’t realized how much I had judged other people’s weight in comparison to my own. Without all those warped expectations, I could respectfully engage, human to human.
The benefits of eating never failed to surprise. I wasn’t cold all the time. My mind cleared and sharpened. I had more energy and sex drive. My skin and hair were glossier, and my nails no longer splintered. (How was that even possible?) My cravings for isolation and darkness lessened, and I enjoyed the warm glow of light in the evenings. (Well, except in bed with Risto). As my mood and body improved, I stopped my mouthwatering stares into trash bins. I had never eaten out of them, even at my worst. But damn it if I hadn’t considered it on multiple occasions. These days, I devoured as much food as I wanted right off my plate.
Yes, in healing, I finally understood my worth, regardless of size. I deserved love and goodness, and that gift was priceless.
Food was medicine, joy, pleasure, and life all rolled into one, as Tasha said so often in our sessions. This version of me proved it.
I explored my body, fingering the softness beneath my skin.
This is how I should have been all along.
I was learning to love her.
I’d been in a supportive bubble the last few months. A cruel world lurked outside my door, waiting to pounce like a mob of rabid yoga gals. My articles and YouTube videos had been going well. The more I shared about my struggles, the more love I got from fans in return. Those voices countered Little Diana whenever she reared up to whisper negative thoughts in my ears. Risto and Dot stood right by my side, so much so that I’d stopped looking at my mom’s threatening texts.
I knew better. But internalizing change down to the marrow of my bones would take time. I’d have to allow myself grace a little longer.
“Okay, class, let’s get going,” Dot shouted over the din of voices.
Those not already on their mats jogged back and sat.
Through the glass studio door, one of the nasty girls noiselessly ranted at the receptionist. The woman’s accusing finger pointing toward our class. Without hearing her venomous words, her true self lay exposed. A venomous, ignorant person who probably resented me for not being hungry.
Huh.
Was part of her anger actually jealousy?
I could almost hear her Little Diana’s voice ranting. If I have to be this way, starve myself and take yoga classes when I’d rather be sleeping, why doesn’t everyone? These fatties shouldn’t be allowed to be happy and exist where I can see them? They’re living reminders of my choices.
A smile crept over my face.
I endured as a living reminder of my choices, emphasis on the living. Too many people with anorexia nervosa didn’t make it.
But I would.
I strolled over to my purple mat and sat, feet together, knees flopped to the sides as far down as my muscles allowed. It wasn’t about being perfect anymore. It was about showing up and trying. That I could do. This class was another first in a litany of firsts, and I yearned for more. To feel, to move, and finally to love the body I was in.