Looking in the mirror, or possibly at my reflection in a
window as I inadvertently catch a glance, poses a challenge. What I see
makes me want to turn away and this raises important questions. Do I call
upon my positive nature and see the glass as half full to reconcile my distress? Should I use this discomfort, literally and
figuratively, as a way to redefine who I think I am within the realities of fibromyalgia,
age, and life? How do I rise above real or perceived physical limitations?
Recently, I found myself pining to be someone other than who
I am on a morning walk while on a business trip in D.C. Heading to the metro to catch a train on a fresh
sunny morning a woman ran past me, earbuds in, running attire impeccably
highlighting her level of fitness, with an effortless gait that propelled her
down the street. I thought about how freeing
it must be to move at that pace, heart rate elevated, lungs distributing oxygen
to muscles, and experiencing a detoxifying sweat. I thought about what it must feel like to have a body that looked and moved like hers. I also pined for that feeling I knew she
would have once she got back home, as her heart rate slowed, hydrating with a
cold swig of water, and then falling into a comfy chair to take in the bliss of
endorphins.
Truth be told, I never was a runner (although I tried mighty
hard to be), so the pining to be the gazelle-like woman was ironic, if
not hysterical. I am sure “gazelle” has never been a term used to describe
me, even at my height of fitness! I reconciled my desire to be a runner well
before age or fibro caught up to me, nonetheless the deep green envy of this
woman was palpable and made me yearn for my former self. I was able to shake it off as I stepped onto
the down escalator to the platform, paying particular attention to the pain in
my feet and knees, taking care to distribute the weight of my laptop bag and
purse in a way that didn’t strain my shoulders and neck, and saving face by choosing to stand instead of sit while waiting for the train.
Once on the platform I relaxed into my usual people watching
habits and marveled at the unique differences of those who waited with me. I considered how each of those bodies held
stories I would never know, just as I was carrying my own stories not visible
to them. Perhaps they also took extra
care to position their bags as they descended the escalator. I stood concocting stories about my fellow metro
riders when I spotted a young woman (who I deemed to be a college student) who joined
the waiting game. She possessed a
confidence I admired, she was short in stature, lean and muscularly compact at
the same time. She was wearing athletic black
shorts and a tank that was the embodiment of assuredness and left no question
of her commitment to fitness. I recognized
this because she possessed similarities to several of my lifelong friends who
also emanate these qualities and something I once did as well. I felt a surge of grief. I looked closer and saw she had a number
marked on her hand, an indication she had just competed in a race or other athletic
event, and a justification of the shameless hamstring stretches she performed
in public. And just like that, the envy
creeped back in, and just like that I worked at pushing it away so I could move
on with my day.
The train arrived and I boarded. Four stops later I was
delivered to my destination and walked up the hill to my meeting. The promised breakfast was a disappointing choice
of Frosted Flakes or Fruit Loops (no kidding).
I cursed my decision to forgo breakfast on my own and apprehensively picked
up one of the pre-packaged cereals of my youth knowing the consumption of carbs
and milk would result in guilt worthy of the locale of the meeting … The
Catholic University of America. With the
shameful breakfast in hand, I joined my social work colleagues and vowed to
embrace their powerful presence of compassion.
We spoke of ending oppression, elevating vulnerable populations, and challenging
and confronting injustice (a day in the work of a social worker)! But still, I
couldn’t shake the envy or guilt, and this brings me shame. When I looked in the mirror during my
bathroom break, I felt self-loathing, and returned to my table. 
