I’m throwing everything I can at this bout of PPD. Unfortunately for my sleep and Netflix habit, "everything I can" includes a membership to Bar Method. It’s like a church for supple people. Or people who want to be supple. SUPPLE. I’m not feeling intimidated by this. I’m a church going person and am used to sitting in pews aspiring to be something I’ll never attain. At least not in this life. There’s something to be said for aspiration, I think.
During one of the sessions this week?
There was a Keira Knightley doppelgänger. At one point when I was standing next to her I kind of just whispered, “Keira” to see if she’d respond? She didn’t. Which either means she wasn’t Keira and just thought I was lost in an exercise induced reverie about a dearly departed person named Keira
she WAS Keira and was keen to my scheme and used those Pirate of the Caribbean acting chops to indifferent her way out of the situation.
Ms. (Not So) Knightley could hardly bend at the bar. Just like me, decidedly UN-KEIRA LOOKALIKE MEG! I didn’t feel gleeful about this. I just felt like, “Solidarity, Sister. We are all equal before the barre.”
Which brings me to another little thing. The first half hour of my first class, I was mortified by how violently my body was shaking. I did not know that the flesh that covers my bones could move so...haphazardly. My arms jerked, my legs quaked, my ass cheeks bounced outward and inward and up and down, occasionally crashing into one another. I was rippling like the sea during a storm, a tower of jello mid-flight from table top to floor, I felt completely out of control. At one point, I’m standing there on the balls of my feet, gasping and body quaking, trying not to cry thinking, “How did I get here? Betrayed by my entire composition, RIGHT HERE IN FRONT OF POSSIBLE KEIRA BLEEPING KNIGHTLEY.”
I started slowing down, making smaller moves, lifting lower, anything ANYTHING to contain the visible evidence of my effort. And then, and then, and then,
The very blonde, very toned, very unshaken teacher walked by a woman in front of me and said,
“Good shaking, Sara! That’s what we like to see!”
What the bleep? Good shaking? Wait. This is allowed to look like it hurts? Like it takes work? Like it’s more than we are currently conditioned for? I am not here because I CAN do? I am here to TRY to do? WE ARE ALLOWED TO BE VISIBLE ABOUT OUR TRYING?
This, sisters, blew my bouncing mind.
Work is allowed to look like it takes work. I can shake and quake and quiver in front of you and it doesn’t make me any less strong, any less likely, any less valuable. It just means I’m trying. It’s okay to let people see me try. (And quite frankly between me and you, it’s quite an assumption, this thinking anyone is watching the trembling of my try. They’re focused on their own shivering starts and stops. They don’t care about mine.)
The implications of the whole life application of this concept is pretty damn exciting.
EMBRACE THE TREMBLE IN YOUR TRY.
So. A pact. If I ever look up from my own wobbling work long enough to notice the wobble in your works, I promise I’ll just smile and shout,
“GOOD SHAKING, SISTER!”
I certainly wouldn’t mind if you thought to do the same.
We are equal before the barre (of life).