My body: a (sometimes) walking freak show

This is the scene:

I'm laying on my stomach. A middle-aged, energetic lady athlete with a blonde ponytail and those athlete-khakis and track jacket, is standing above me to the left, one hand on the bottom of my foot, the other hand behind my knee. She's slowly lifting my leg off the physical therapy table. "Do you feel that?"

"No."

"That?"

"No."

"How bout that?" There is a slight surprise in her voice.

"No." There is a slight annoyance in mine.

"Come here," she calls to her two P.T. interns, wearing those same athlete-khakis. "Take that leg." She motions toward my right leg. "Now lift it like this."

One of the interns takes my foot, bend my leg, and begins to lift. My belly stays flat on the table. The second intern stands by head, hands on her hips, poker-faced.

"Do you feel that?" asks boy-intern holding my foot.

"No."

"That?"

"No."

"I wish I could bend like that," says girl-intern, moving closer to the other end of the table, so to get a better look.


"If you could," say my P.T., "you would have her problem and not be able to walk." She pauses, readjusting her hand against the laces of my shoe. "And this? How to you feel here?" I can feel the sole of my shoe gently graze the back of my neck.

"There's a little pull, I guess." I say this because I don't want them to think I'm a total freak. Girl-intern gasps.

"Were you in gymnastics?"

I did two years once a week at the Y when I was in elementary school. I don't tell her this. It's not the answer she's looking for. I wasn't training. I was standing in line waiting for my turn to do a hand stand on the uneven bars while my sister braided my hair. I'm not an athlete.

But that information came as a surprise, evidently, as I walked into campus yesterday for a quick swim before spending my evening with one of my besties watching the Housewives.

"You must be an athlete." A black gentleman around my age speeds up to meet my stride. I mention he's a man of color here because it has only ever been men of color who compliment me on my body, with one exception in my memory. When I was early in treatment and a bit under-weight, I was forced to take a college Health class, which required a 3-day a week "lab" in the fitness center. Despite my treatment team's phone calls to the school to get a medical exception (I was out of my first hospitalization for only a few weeks when I had to begin these "labs") and then a disability accommodation, the school didn't budge. I had to be in the gym but I would only be required to walk laps for 45 minutes (counting laps is really excellent for anyone prone to compulsive exercise). Once a week, one of the personal trainers would join me on my laps. One week, having read my charts, this thirty-something white guy asked me "Why do you do it?"

"Do what?" I ask.

"You don't need to lose weight. Your body is perfect just the way it is."

I ignored him. He pulled my arm. "Hey. Look at me. It's really fine the way it is."

I kept my pace and gazed at my feet. He was an idiot. My body was not fine the way it was. My heart beat irregularly. I had internal bleeding that was still not under control and my electrolytes needed constant monitoring. But that's fine. Judge away.

Back to yesterday, walking to the gym: "You must be an athlete," the gentleman repeats. I wasn't sure he was talked to me.

"Huh?"

"Your legs are huge!" I'm at a loss for words but I don't break my stride.

"Yah, well..." I shrug. Is there an appropriate response here? Thanks?

"No! It's not bad. They look really powerful." I glance down. My jeans are loose and holey and partially covered by my trench coat. "Do you work out?"

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"Swim."

"You must be fast. Are you fast?" Here's the thing. I don't really swim. I got to the pool and spend thirty minutes practicing laps.

"No."

"I bet you're fast." I keep walking. "You look good." And just like that, he breaks his stride with me and turns right toward the bus stop.

And I'm left, my big, slow, bendy legs carrying me through the rain.