Mirror. Mirror.

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.

I’m still figuring it out.  There’s a socially-constructed ideal of beauty and fitness I have internalized that is complex and multi-layered.  I know this.  I’ve been the chubby middle-schooler, athletic teenager, overweight college student, super-fit twenty-something, in-between-thirty-five-year old, over-stressed forty-year-old, and defiant fifty and closer to sixty year-old.  When I think of all of these outward versions of myself, I know that the deep-down-inside Cyndi has never changed.   I am not unique with my body-image struggles, and at the same time they are unique to me.  I am thankful for the age, experience, and wisdom that helps me navigate them.  Truth be told, I never knew I possessed such vanity, and the reality of that is hard to shake.  I want the pain to end, and not just the pain of negative self-regard, but the actual pain that pulses through my body.  I want age to reverse itself.  I want my belt to stop pressing into my belly.  Most of all, I don’t want this to hold as much importance as it does.   I’m working on being as kind to myself as I strive to be to others.