“I don’t have a waist: I’m a breadbox on top of legs.” – Tyne Daly
Today I put my hand on my mid-section and, instead of sinking into the soft pudge that’s become my new torso reality, it hit something hard.
My old torso reality.
I’m an avid exerciser: the one spinning while others sleep, saluting the sun in hot yoga classes, finishing a 5K mud run with a cracked rib because, dammit, you finish what you start.
The one whose waist is so lean and muscular that a friend once said I had the “best abs on the beach.”
At least that’s who I used to be.
The current torso reality.
Over the past ten months – the length of my relapse, which I pray to God is over – my exercise routine dwindled to nothing. Late-night binges made early morning workouts impossible. Severe digestive problems kept me in the bathroom rather than on the bike path.
Now I’m the one whose thighs jiggle when she walks, whose prepaid Pilates classes are set to expire, whose living room contains a pair of red-wheeled roller-skates used solely for decoration.
The one whose waist is soft, bloated and hidden under yoga pants and big sweaters.
The new torso reality.
But today my waist showed up.
The surprise abdominal muscle reminded me that all is not lost. I’m still the me of Old Torso Reality.
Now that I’m feeling better, it’s time to start moving again, one step at a time, literally: a walk on the beach, a YouTube meringue class.
Because I don’t ever want my waist and me to break up again.
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