the whole plate.

I have never been an athletic person.  In high school, I was the girl who stood in the back during gym class, chatting with her friends and letting the dodge ball pass her by.  If it hadn’t been a requirement, I can guarantee I wouldn’t have even owned a pair of sneakers.  I remember specifically having to buy a pair before my post-college-graduation Birthright trip to Israel, where good sneakers were required for desert hiking.

These days though, I think I’m in pretty good shape.  I have muscle.  I have stamina.  And yet, I find myself unable to hold my own in conversations with most “fit” people: I don’t run anymore, I never raced, I don’t take abs classes or spin classes or even belong to a gym.  I don’t subscribe to the “get it done” or “burn off those calories” philosophy when it comes to sweating.  Sure, this all started due to injury, but that isn’t necessary justification anymore.

Now, I happily say: I’m just a yoga person.

Some people get that, but most don’t.  Mulling that reaction over recently, I realized:  why does it matter?  I’ve never been part of the athlete club.  That doesn’t mean I’m not strong.  That doesn’t mean I’m not dedicated.

highly unattractive post-yoga breakfast of homemade muesli.  a blend of kiwi, dried cherries, pistachios, banana, ginger, oats, soy milk, and yogurt.  a big yummy mess.

I’ve never had a problem with dedication.  I took twelve years of ballet lessons, and a few other forms of dance along the way.  I can remember the day I put on my first pair of pointe shoes, how proud I felt, how excited I was.  My ballet teacher didn’t put our entire class on pointe together – you had to be ready for it.  You had to have enough strength, enough balance, enough dedication – and that was unique to each one of us.

I still have that first pair of pointe shoes.  My mom had burned the edges of the ribbons with a match, to keep them from fraying.  I scraped away the shine from the pale pink toes to make the slippery shoes more practical for balancing.  I remember pulling the ribbons taut – criss cross, one time around the foot, double knot, hide the edges inside the ankle.  I walked, duck-footed as I did back then, into the studio.  I stood at the wall, bent into a deep plié, one hand just touching the barre for balance, and I rose up, suddenly growing eight and a half inches taller.

some things do change over the years – my meals being number one on that list.

No one doubted my activity level back then, save for one gym teacher with whom I got into a heated debate about just how sweaty you can get a ballet barre.  As an adult though, I find myself often faced with the stigma that if someone isn’t making it to the gym, lifting weights, sweating it out on a machine, getting the heart rate into that perfect range, then that person isn’t fully committed to her health.  People look at me and say, “Oh yeah, I do yoga too, sometimes.  A vinyasa class is great after an X mile run.”

Back in my dancing days, I had physical proof of my dedication: my toes told the real story.  They were crushed, calloused, blistered.  Sometimes they bled or even went numb.  None of us in those classes cared.  Our legs were strong, our bodies centered.

I think, maybe, I was meant to do yoga in my adult life.  I no longer need my feet to bleed to prove my dedication.  My uniform is no longer a body-hugging leotard and tights.  My equipment now rolls into a cylinder, and I go barefoot.  But I am still committed.

Just as I slowly mastered triple pirouettes, someday, I believe I’ll be able to stand on my head in yoga class.  Someday, I’ll be able to do this.  That someday might be years in the future, and so, in the meantime:  for a few hours a week, I dedicate myself.  I practice.

For me, that is fitness, and it is the only type that I need.

To what are you dedicated?

Related posts:

1. snack 12.10: ripe banana.
2. marching to my own yoga drum.
3. power[ful] yoga.