I’ve always been awfully slender. I think “slender” is the best word for the job. More flattering than skinny or scrawny or thin, but less artful-sounding that others I might choose. A girlfriend and I joke that we’re too small for Canada, not enough insulation to last from September when the nights get cool through October and November when the days are too, and all the way till May when at last real warmth returns.
Last night at yoga class, I stretched my right arm over my head, turned to look at my palm, bent one knee in a deep lunge and huffed out stale air. Let go of this, and shushed out that. Dipped low into a pose that had eluded me till now. Realised I can practically yank my foot over my shoulder from behind and bite my own toe, but can barely stand ten seconds on one foot before I teeter and fall. Over red wine and conversation with A. after class, I considered aloud: “It seems I am awfully flexible, but with no sense of balance or grounding. Too many accommodations, considerations, compromises, and not enough standing firm…”
A. raised her glass in a toast to this revelation, however yucky and tough it was to accept and declare. She also agreed with the lady who’d been stretching on the mat behind me: this past week, some fretting has dropped pounds from my frame, and there’s no time like the present to boost my croissant-butter-bacon-cake intake and load some back on. Fresh insulation to get me through the late days of winter, and tide me over till spring.