Skeleton Crew

I used to watch my mother hang clothes she had just washed on the clothesline to dry. I would lay in the grass a few feet away from her and look at the sky while our sheets, shirts, and skirts billowed in the wind. I would try to lay very still until everything was dry because there was this sense of accomplishment I felt when the clothes would lose their heaviness and stop dragging the line. Blankets that once nearly grazed the grass would float higher and higher and become more affected by the breeze. It was like they had let go of something.

My sophomore year of high school I lost about 30 pounds. I had played softball since I was in pigtails, but it was becoming more and more evident that if I wanted to win the favor of my coach, I would need to slim down. I was a size 10 at the time, and had already reached my tallest height of 5'6. I dropped to a size 2 and found myself starting our varsity games. When we would run laps around the track during practice, I imagined myself like the laundry my mom would put out to dry. Everytime I ran another lap I envisioned another layer of fat evaporating from my body. I became faster, and lighter, and eventually I reasoned that I might be able to float away.

I still see this vision when I exercise - it's something that I have trouble erasing. I still contemplate just how much I have let go of each time I exercise. I still squeeze my hips and my wrists in an attempt to figure out how close I am to being light and little. My reasonable self wishes for a time will exercise will just be exercise, and laundry will just be clean. My disenchanted self just wants to float. For now, my present self is stuck in the middle, just trying to keep her head above water.