A week or so ago, my mom was visiting and we went to yoga per her usual Saturday routine back home. Our teacher, Amy, was fantastic and during the course of practice said a phrase that really resonated with me: honor your limitations until your flexibility arrives. Now, obviously, in the space of a yoga studio, this has a more literal meaning--if you can't put your palms flat on your mat, be ok with it until you can--but I've held onto the more figurative undertone since and am trying to adopt it into my life. Like many people--women especially, though not solely--who are driven,
ambitious, and lean toward perfectionism, I am highly self-critical. When I can't do something well--or, worse, at all--on the first try, or if I make a mistake, it bothers me immensely. I see the things I cannot do or cannot do well as flaws--I should be able to X; I should be able to do Y better--even if it makes no sense. These limiting thoughts follow me professionally, personally, romantically, and they are just that: limiting. Terribly so. And yet.
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For my birthday, I bought myself a bike. It's something I had wanted to do for a while, and no, not just because my boyfriend is a successful, competitive cyclist. It's greener, another form of exercise, faster than walking, something to do when the weather is nice, etc. I haven't owned a bike since high school, because I've lived in mostly suburban places, where it's harder--though, certainly, not impossible--to get around via bike, since my commute to work would have been, oh, you know, like an hour. So when I moved in with said boyfriend to a more urban part of Columbus, I treated myself.
And yet. I'm still a wee nervous about biking on the road, especially the main thoroughfare of the city or the cross street that is closest to my apartment because it has a steep hill with a curve at the bottom and a single lane for traffic. I don't love intersections where I have to make a left. I've done it twice now, but biking at night freaks me out a little, less because of seeing/being seen and more because in my vivid imagination I'm going to be abducted at a stoplight and never heard from again. I'm neither fast nor strong, and despite my designed-especially-for-ladies saddle, I still feel sore in my, erm, "undercarriage." Hell, half the time, my spatially challenged brain can't wrap its mind around locking the damn thing to the nearest rack.
These are my limitations. And I'm going to honor them. So I take alternate routes to avoid High Street unless I'm in a group. So I have to plan extra time to make sure I can find a spot to secure my bike, knowing I'll look like an idiot for a bit, fumbling with the lock and key. So I ask for help. I'll get more lights to make coming home in the dark easier. So I wear liner shorts with a padded channel if I know I'll be riding longer distances. So I sometimes--gasp!--act like a pedestrian and use the sidewalk and "safe to cross" signal to turn left at intersections, something that seasoned cyclists likely view as anathema. I've gone up that scary cross-street hill: I'm not quick, and my heart races a little bit (hooray, cardio!), but I do it and relish the thigh-burn once it's flattened out.
Honor your limitations until your flexibility arrives.
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I cannot remember a time in my life when I did not have body image issues. I hate this about myself, but I am not alone. I can't name a single female friend who doesn't hate or complain about part of her body sometimes, and I know lots of men who do, too. (I bet more men would share these feelings if it were more culturally acceptable to do so.) It is sad that even the most feminist, female-celebrating among us, those of us who can also name things about our bodies we do love--to say nothing of our minds and personalities--cannot let go of the concept of "bodily perfection," even if we simultaneously recognize that this is self-defeating, culturally bound, always changing (Marilyn Monroe to Twiggy, anyone?), and damn near "universal." In the cruel irony of the world, my favorite seasons, spring and summer, make me even more self conscious about the parts of myself I like the least: Shorts are horribly unflattering on me. Short skirts don't work, either. I have zero cleavage, so lots of tanks, sundresses, and bathing suits fall--pun intended--flat. I'm really fair skinned--not only do I not tan, I burn just by thinking about sitting in the sun under an umbrella with a hat. I also bruise easily, so my pale legs are also usually dotted with varying shades of blue and green because I seem to have no concept of my physical body in space. (Also, see above: new to biking. Crashed once already. Epic bruise.) My curly hair rebels against humidity. but my endocrine issues prevent me from growing it much longer so I can't do "cute things" with it. I think my toes look weird in some sandals. Maxi dresses, a very "in" style that are long--hence I could avoid the problems inherent in short skirts--swallow me whole with their overabundance of fabric because I am so petite. You see, the logical part of my brain understands that I shop in the 0-2 size rack*; the emotional part of my brain isn't on board.
These are my limitations. And I'm going to honor them. So I wear capris, not shorts. So I don't partake in toe-isolating gladiators with a stylish maxi dress. So I buy skirts that graze the knee. My small cup size means I can go bra-less, and I've decided to do that as much as possible this summer--culturally dictated norms about nipples be damned.
But I'm also in a mode to be more flexible about this; unlike biking, which is much newer to me, this is a 20 some odd year limitation. And my flexibility won't arrive unless I take active steps to make it appear. I actually bought two--that's right, two--dresses that come a very scandalous full inch above my knee. I gave up cardio and weights for May, and instead am doing only yoga (and biking), which I'm hoping will help me honor the body I have instead of wishing it were different, even though as I type this, I'm emailing with a friend about how it's stressing me out. I have been trying to have more conversations between the logical and emotional sides of my brain about clothes and fit and function and fearlessness, to mixed results. I might not ever get flexible on this, but I have to try.
I'm honoring my limitations, but I'm working towards flexibility.
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I could say the same about so many other facets of my life: who doesn't have baggage that impacts personal and romantic relationships? I would like to meet that person, because I think you're a mythical beast. I believe, fully and enormously, in the power of vulnerability and see so clearly the importance of wholeheartedness. But you know what? They're both fucking terrifying. However, in order to be a better partner, and reap more out of love, I am working to be more flexible about my limitations, especially with regard to being expansive and eliminating fear based emotions, like my friend recently blogged about. (Seriously. Read her.) So I get professional help. So I read about it. So I talk through these feelings with ever-patient friends. I talk myself through the contradictions in the logical and emotional parts of my brain. (Luckily, as an only child, I have lots of practice talking to myself.)
The same is true for gardening. Food. Reading. Writing. Sex. Being the kind of citizen I want to be in the world we live in and wanting to change it. Even driving. But I can't "fix" my limitations all at once, if at all, and so the only rational response, the only way I can achieve a modicum of inner peace, is to honor them while waiting--and working--for my flexibility to arrive.
At least I can get my palms flat on my yoga mat. Phew.
*This is not me validating our cultural obsession with thin-ness by bragging that I wear a 2. This is me pointing out the ludicrousness of rationally understanding that I am petite but focusing on my flaws, like, you know, the fact that I'm a woman in my mid-30s who has a little bit of flesh on her lower half. This just in: I have an ass. And it jiggles.
