My grandma is five lbs hanging around my middle. Whip cream weight slurped and shoveled from grande coffee frappaccinos on long I-90 car trips to hospitals and childhood home and Real Life. I tried to feel her hug again by adding flesh to my sadness and thighs.
Joining a gym feels like living and betrayal.
I’m leaving the crumbling yoga community illusion and rushing headlong into the refreshingly straightforward non facade of the perky name brand workout. It’s not church. It’s not therapy. It won’t bring her back. But it can help me with the 5 lbs of flesh and fat.
There are times I drive and sob. There are nights I slide into the pool and remember how powerful and strong I was at twelve. How I could fill the pool with tears and then frog kick my way to a fantastic ass. How there’s nothing more peaceful and quiet than the underwater silence. How she would be so pleased that I’m swimming again.