Taking Flight

Taking Flight

By Julie Iverson

The other day upon return home from the gym, I laughed at myself thinking the pronoun word me, associated with gym, me at gym, seemed oxymoron. Had Hell frozen over? Driving to a place of endurance and pain causing money going out, both time and currency spent, had seemed ludicrous, always, to me. Envy, was also one of my many flaws, jealous of those who looked good, so, I did manage to pound miles once upon a time during my young adult phase, marching outdoors, playing the part, hiding body fat. Who would imagine, twenty years of shin splints later, my gym at the community center would become free of charge to senior citizens? I go there several times a week now; to fly. The magic is the elliptical machine, low impact.

In fourth grade, yes, elementary school, I dropped my lunch tray, hot lunch, daily for five in a row. Rumor had it that parents were charged for the extra lunches. My mother signed me up for dance class which also included a certain amount of strength and coordination. Before kindergarten, she, my mother, had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Imagination told me, “A bird” would be nice because of wanting to fly. Honestly, looking back, there had been very few one on one conversations between us, mother and me, the baby of the family as she let the other kids take over. One could say, to her credit, mother was busy; busy smoking. Addiction is real and cigarettes were her first love. Acknowledging foregiveness for mother the smoke still leaves, factually, the relationship was seriously lacking and daunting. Accidentally at dance class, I overheard ‘clumsy’ during lessons from my mother to the teacher, and at home, my mother to the others. I quit the class.

There was no pain in quitting dance class; the pain was in the staying. Besides, in a manner of coping, aspiring to a new low seemed natural, sort of acting on a self-fulfilling prophesy as instructed, if you say I am, then, I am. I bought a bra at the Five & Dime and endured some ridicule for it. Clumsy on the school playground was noticed yet, I persevered. a learned trait and lifelong skill, faking it. Awkward me eventually managed to hang on to my lunch tray, teachers were kind. Invitations came from several families and somehow, my childhood improved for a bit. Next, we moved away for purposes of father’s career.

Body image is such a hullabaloo. for one thing, the body is on autopilot where, getting a remote control for it was so hard. Always an imaginary force of control, illogically deduced from many a bad day, no self control, no choosing my own destiny. When remembering from the beginning as a toddler with growing pains, there was no self control there. Hunger, that was and is always, or, until vitamins worked their magic health, however, that was accidental, rudimentary. Raise your hand if anyone helped you with personal issues or baby fat back in the day, if yes, you are lucky, my friend. Again, as an elder accidental improved fitness worked its magic.

In the teenage angst, for me, age thirteen years old was ancient for a new ballerina but I signed up anyway. Who knew that little girls, good ballerinas, were dancing since first grade? The weekly lessons were a dollar, my father paid. Dancing was a privilege, and I did not look the type with my thick stature and short hair. Quickly advancing from the flats to the toe shoes proved my dedication to the art, baby fat intact. Black leather toe shoes were special order as I had graduated myself out of the pink satin model. The satins practically disintegrated due to my girth, there must be an exertion and stress minus thin fabric calculation to understand the shredding as they did. Lamb’s wool protected my little pink toes inside at the tips. As I danced with perfect stance and perfect hands, my mind escaped velocity. The teacher witnessed this as well and stuck with me through my awkwardness. Growing a couple inches taller and honing some muscles previously unknown helped my posture and confidence.

My beautiful black leathers were not an insult and not an inconvenience, as was I, according to my mother, accident prone. My shoes made me not an affront, they made a beauty of me as I danced. Upon overhearing, accidentally, when my father said that I was pretty rang a bell that sounded true and I held my head high, like a ballerina. There feeling lasted for more than a year as my inconsistencies won more than I liked.

For my own journey, the roller coaster life went forth, walking outdoors began to sustain me. First marriage came young, went wrong; came and went. Throughout the ups and downs in both my personal life and intracareer, I somehow managed; don’t we all? This human-interest tale would have ended now if not for the bizarre occurrence of my breast cancer. Yes, less than two years before retirement time, the fuzzy nom de plumes in the left breast were diagnosed stage three, nonmetastatic. There is a theory that, five years of having improved diet with cruciferous vegetables such as kale had held the beast at bay.

Immediate to mastectomy, double, and reconstruction left me new and improved. No longer needed was a horrible medieval over the shoulder boulder holder; I stopped wearing a bra. Now, with a perky chest, I exercise for health and strength, flying on the elliptical machine. Secondarily, an added benefit, the pharmacist verifies my year of birth twice, my new primary physician has done the same, specifically pointing out the year. I look younger now. Retired at the Land of Enchantment, New Mexico breathes new life into me as it did the centuries before for tribes of native Americans, who also knew, this land and air is enchanting. //