Little Lady

Okay, I get it, world. I'm tiny.

Little. Small. Itty-bitty. Whatever.

I will probably never see myself that way, for two reasons:

1. The negative: I will always, always hold on to that feeling of being bigger because I spent most of my adult life to this point overweight. It doesn't matter what the scale says or what size clothing I wear, I'm going to feel bigger than I actually am. I suppose I'll always carry a little bit of body dysmorphia around with me.
2. On the positive side, while logically I know I'm small in stature, I also know how strong I've become. Don't let the physical size you see when you look at me fool you--I am quite strong and capable, thank-you-very-much.

Last night, I left earlier than usual for choir rehearsal. Local tornado warnings and the first rain of the season had me feeling cautious, so I arrived at the cathedral for rehearsal well ahead of most of the rest of the choir. Some of the men had also arrived early, to haul risers up from the basement, and I offered my assistance.

Here's the thing: Most of the guys are perfectly fine with me helping, and after some initial, "You got this? You sure?" they realized that yes, I've got this, and yes, I can hold my end of a choir riser up as we slowly haul it up a flight of stairs, around a few corners, and into the sanctuary.

It just still amazes me that people don't look at me an automatically know that I lat-pulled 90 pounds that morning, or ran three miles, or...you get the picture. I have to remind myself that people look at me and see 5'2" and 130-ish pounds. "Tiny." I'm toned, but last night I was wearing a sweater and jeans. Knee-high boots. If I'd been in my gym gear and sturdy running shoes, maybe they'd have looked at me differently.

Our director, Don, a man in his sixties, was hauling a riser up the stairs with another guy and saw me heading down to get another. "Are you okay, Megan?" he asked as he struggled backwards up the stairs with his half.

"I'm fine!" I replied with a laugh. "I'm an athlete!"

I helped haul about four or five of those risers up the stairs with one of the guys. I told him the short version of my story, and he was impressed. Maybe that's one reason I insisted on being the only woman helping with the lifting and hauling last night. Sure, some of it is the feminist in me who winces every time Don asks for "the men" to help with the risers at rehearsal. But some of it is also my need to tell my story and get it out there in the world. I won't lie, I love the reactions I get, and the kudos. But I also love knowing that maybe, just maybe, someone else who struggles will look at how far I've come and think, "Hey, I can do this, too."

In the end, what I found hilarious was that hauling risers up stairs was perfectly fine--what ended up making my back hurt last night was spending too much time sitting on a wooden pew while the soloists and instrumentalists rehearsed!

Next time Don calls on the guys to help set up, I'll help again--if I feel like it.

Don't worry boys, I got this. ; )