Taking steps

I did something tonight that I haven't done in years. Don't ask me why, but I remembered how when I was young, my mother would have my sister and I practice walking across a room with a book on our heads. It was one of those charm school things (Yes, we actually went to a charm school that taught etiquette, grooming, and deportment for young ladies. Have I mentioned that I had an extremely old fashioned upbringing?)

Both of my parents were rather short. My mother was 5' 3" before old age shrinkage set in, and my father was 5'9". By the end of their lives, I felt like I towered over both of them. Despite that my striking grandmother (she bore a resemblance to Wallis Simpson and had a similar elegance) who lived with us was nearly six feet tall, I somehow got stuck in the idea that pretty girls were petite, and my 5'8" just didn't cut the mustard. I had to learn how to walk tall and proud, and the head-book exercise worked. For a very brief time in my young life, I had wonderful posture.

Then the boobs came out, and self-consciousness took back over. I relearned the back slump, the forward curved shoulder, and the ducked head. No amount of posture training ever cured of me of klutziness, and as the knee and ankle injuries accumulated, my stride became a shuffle. During my pregnancy and at my peak weights, I confess it was a waddle. At worst, it was a limp. I'm still relearning to walk up and down stairs more than one step at a time.

So, tonight, when the disrupted body clock set in, keeping me alert and awake when I should be sleeping, I got out one of our taller and thinner art books, placed it on my head and decided to see how far I could go. (It's a good thing the womanchild was asleep. She would have howled with laughter.) It took five attempts to go more than two steps. On the tenth, I made it to six steps. On the fifteenth, I slowly traversed the dining room.

It felt good. Forgetting for a moment that I had a book on my head and was wearing an old nightgown and Birkenstocks, I felt elegant. I could feel in the line of my back a greater potential for strength and for the display of power. I felt dignified. This was a walk that would command attention when I entered a room. It could turn heads. I liked it. (Thanks, mom!)

Sitting here writing, I'm trying to keep up the good posture. Frankly, it hurts. Honestly, large breasted women ought to be provided counterweights to help keep their shoulders back.
The minor ache in my hips is making me wonder just how just how badly I've twisted my spine and what my stride has looked like in my mirror avoidance years.

I think it's worth practicing, no matter how silly the practice itself may look. Who knows what this could lead to? Being treated like a woman who deserves respect because I'm presenting myself like that's the only option? Feeling sexier? Who knows? Many times I've repeated to myself over the months that change occurs two ways, inside out and outside in. I've put a lot of thought into the mental and emotional aspects of being fat, so I could understand what I really needed to change on the insides and keep what what was worth keeping. I've spent a lot of time and energy on tangible changes in my food intake, and now it's time to make more changes in how I treat and use my body.

posture