If you’d seen me in the class with the others on our mats, you couldn’t tell. My pose – all swiveled and clutching – looked just like others. Bent pipe cleaner, tangled headphones. But I knew it was wrong. Pushing and silently grunting, I couldn’t twist past my spare flesh-cluttered front. My shameful flesh-cluttered front, the one I should have whittled and starved after my last baby, my now teenage son, was born. Then today I saw. My body is just as good as the woman on the next mat, and my life’s not hers. So I twisted and it shifted.
