Weight Ain't Nothin' but a Number

Dear Thailand Committee on Self Esteem and Body Image,

I was recently in a yoga studio where I was asked to step on a scale. The reaction of the other people (all Thai) implied that I should be embarrassed about the number the scale displayed. Other days at this same studio, it is measuring and comparing waist, hip, and bust sizes. 

I do not feel the need to apologize for weighing 60 kilos. Nor am I in the least bit embarrassed by that number or by the fact that I have a solid 10-15 kilos on every Thai lady in my yoga class. I do not expect that as a woman in my late twenties I would have a 22 inch waist. 

Yes, I am bigger than many Thai women. I probably always will be. 

There was a time when I thought that weight, that magic number on the scale, meant something. At one point in my life, I gave it so much value that it controlled nearly everything I ate and did. From the age of 12 until about 20, I couldn’t imagine weighing more than 100 pounds; 110 felt like the end of the world. At one point during freshman year of college, I hit a low of 85 pounds. At that time, in that pound-oriented mindset, I felt like that was a glorious number.

But it didn’t feel healthy. I was frail and tired. I was sick and weak. I was skinny, sure, but I was in no way healthy.

Today, at the age of 26, I apparently weigh around 135. I might not be perfectly in shape – things might be bouncier or squishier than “ideal” – but I am strong and healthy. I am certainly not stick-thin, but by most standards, especially my own, I am not overweight.

Being healthy does not require washboard abs, sculpted arms, or cellulite-free thighs.  I would rather be the version of healthy that I embody right now than be super-skinny, have those perfect body parts, and constantly criticize everything I do and every morsel I consume. I no longer have the desire for my hipbones or collarbones to protrude, for my thighs not to touch, or for my arms to be 100% jiggle-free. 

Now, I do not necessarily agree wholeheartedly with the American adage about accepting yourself just the way you are; too often it becomes an excuse for apathy, laziness, and inertia. I accept myself, and this means accepting that in many ways I can be better. I can be nicer, kinder, more understanding; I can work harder, learn more, and find ways to step out of my comfort zone. I can be stronger, eat better, push myself to try things toward which I am not naturally inclined or gifted. But these days, I push myself to be better without criticizing that which needs to be changed.

Hear me: not only am I not ashamed of my 60 kilos. I’m damn proud of them. They took fortitude to acquire, perseverance to develop. They come from strength and confidence, rather than self-denial and insecurity.  I am proud that I sometimes allow myself to overindulge, proud of my 3-second handstand, proud of almost being able to run a half mile. I am proud to know that, with work and a positive attitude, I can push three seconds to four and half a mile to a whole mile. And if in the process my thighs or arms get bigger, so be it. I am proud, most of all, that a number doesn’t define whether or not I think I am beautiful.

So, Thailand, stop patting my belly and pinching my arm fat. Stop asking if I am pregnant. Stop covering the scale readout. This is me, all 135 glorious, healthy pounds of me. And, I will not let you make me feel bad about who I am or how I look.

Sincerely,

disgruntled but ever-loving foreigner

*While I realize how many of these same arguments can be applied to American culture’s standards of beauty, Thailand is particularly blunt and graceless when it comes to social treatment of body size and standards of beauty. 

Paradise Found

Off the northernmost tip of Sumatra lies the tiny, rural island of Pulau Weh. Reaching this haven required some time and effort: a twelve hour bus to the north, a becak to the pier, a ferry to the island, and a harrowing, eye-watering, ear-popping motorcycle taxi across the island. But it was worth the work to reach Weh Island’s rustic (budget) tourist digs.

Waters vary from crystal clear to impossible blues and greens, enticing swimmers to find sweet, cool respite. Waves gently caress shores rocky and sandy alike, lulling the hammock-bound into swinging afternoon naps. Afternoon thunderstorms patter on tin bungalow roofs. For me, the bungalow balcony offered a perfect spot for morning yoga, and the affectionate local cats were ideal cuddle partners for those afternoon naps. It is in many ways postcard-perfect.

Even the negatives on Weh Island yield positive results. The herds of goats that love to clip-clop down onto our bungalow porch provide us with incredible goat’s milk cheddar for morning omelets. The impossibly incorrect maps lead us on a drive over the entirety of the magnificently picturesque island. The rough speedboat ride that sent us hurtling over six-foot swells through a thunderstorm and left us soaked to the bone allowed us to snorkel with dancing schools of fish, color flickering in the sunlight; it also ended with our being gifted a 25-pound fish, a gut-busting feast, even for six people.

With its minimal tourist infrastructure, herds of goats, and numerous mosques, Weh Island isn’t the ideal paradise getaway. It was rustic, our tour guides also made their living fishing, there wasn’t hot water or air conditioning, we forgot to reapply sunscreen, and the beer was absurdly overpriced and hard to find. But it was gorgeous, the people friendly and helpful, the food delicious, and the cats plentiful. I truly couldn’t ask for anything more. 

A Grand Opening

Had you asked me mere months ago where I thought we would be at the start of 2013, Rwanda would not have been my first answer. Nor would it have appeared in a probable top ten list. Yet, life being unpredictable as it is, here we are.

Beautiful circumstances have conspired to land us in this tiny African country, working for newly-launched (opened on January 7^th) City Arts Kigali. Springing from the overwhelming success of Ballet Rwanda, the country’s first classical ballet school, City Arts fills a vacuum in Kigali: offering a dizzyingly expansive selection of classes for children and adults.

Win and I have been brought on to dedicate our time to teaching art and yoga, respectively; the other teachers, expats and Rwandans alike, teach classes and workshops once or twice a week, as they have real jobs to attend to.

With such an exciting job prospect, we did a very basic research rundown of Rwanda --- Is it safe? Check. Is it affordable relative to pay? Yep. Is it somewhere new from which we can launch explorations of other African countries? You bet. --- and left the rest up to chance. Beyond the basics, no amount of research will tell you whether or not you will like a place. Sometimes you just have to jump in with both feet. So, that's just what we did.

Rwanda’s reputation among the western world is based almost solely on the genocide of 1994. It is understandable; what we know of a place is based on what is in the media. Since the early 90s, however, Rwanda has become an incredibly safe country, especially when compared to some of its neighbors. People walk around at night. The streets, though only about ten percent paved, are virtually spotless. Grass is kept trimmed, hedges squared. I even hear that the police pride themselves on being helpful.

Not only is Kigali clean, but it is breathtakingly beautiful. Known as the ‘land of a thousand hills’, the city is a mass of rolling green, highlighted by the orange of roofs and the red of the dirt, all under a huge, expressive sky. And by night, the cityscape sparkles with breadth and depth. Roads snake around and over it all, making for some of the most impressive mototaxi rides I have yet to experience.

Most importantly, people are friendly and helpful. Smiles are wide and bright. And food, though a bit bland, is plentiful. We have eaten a decent amount of goat in the past week and a half, along with a ton of rice, beans, potatoes, and other starches. But local produce is cheap, as is local beer. We have what we need, and with a little exploring, we are sure to find more to eat, experience, and enjoy.

Where the Magic Happens

Far too often, we get so caught up in the day-to-day nature of life and end up ensnared by routine. We become so comfortable that life becomes stagnant, rather than dynamic. In the last month, some of the best things I have done have been those things that I wouldn’t have expected to find myself doing: blindfolded yoga practice, for example. There's something incredible about taking a moment, every day, or maybe just once a week or once a month, to do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.

Go to a restaurant by yourself. Confront a fear. Brush your teeth left-handed. Learn a new language, even if you may never use it. Drive on the opposite side of the road (you may need to move to a different country first). Pick things up with your toes instead of your hands. Tell someone you love them. Take a class doing something you think you can’t learn, and learn how to do it. Do a somersault. Lie in the grass, or dirt, or leaves, or even just carpet. Dance like you never learned any dance moves. Tell yourself that you’re beautiful. Learn to take a compliment. Use your imagination for something other than worrying.

If you spend all your time doing things that are ordinary, you’ll never experience something truly extraordinary.

Ha Ha Ho Ho He He

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Laughter is contagious. But unlike the flu, laughter is good for your health. It boosts your serotonin levels, increases your immune responses, and leads to a general sense of wellbeing. Given enough time, it can also be one hell of an abdominal workout. It doesn’t even have to be real laughter, your brain can’t actually tell the difference. So, theoretically, that apple a day could be replaced with some forced chuckles.

 

Enter, Laughter Yoga. Even if the laughter starts out fake, in a large group it quickly turns into full-fledged hilarity. In a half-hour class, we electro-shocked laughs into one another, sprayed each other with machine gun laughter, laughed off imagine tragedies, made a belly laugh chain, and pretended to be hysterical, laughing clams. We suppressed giggles, snickered at fake farts, and guffawed in each other’s faces. We tittered, chortled, hooted, howled, cackled, and snorted.

At the end of it all we were sweaty and our sides were aching, but there wasn’t a frown to be seen.

Balance, Trust, and Play

I have recently been introduced to a wonderful new pastime: Acroyoga. Despite its name, Acroyoga isn’t a particularly “yogic” activity in the traditional sense. Unless of course by yogic, you mean amazing. Then you would be spot on. Basically, Acroyoga is the lovechild of partner yoga and acrobatics.

I am currently participating in a month-long, intensive Yoga Teacher Training and enjoying every blissful, challenging moment. Acroyoga has taken over our Sunday afternoons (and I am sorely disappointed that there are so few Sundays in a week). Though not technically part of the course, we have had the joy of being introduced to Acroyoga through one of the instructors, the quirky, multi-talented Ms. Emily Baxter, who happens to also be a certified Acroyoga teacher.

From first glance, Acroyoga looks like it is somewhere between difficult and impossible, reserved for only the strong, stable, and fearless. In reality, it’s not as hard as it looks. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t say it’s easy. But with trust and confidence, it comes together. The base finds a nice, sturdy position, the flyer moves in a light, slow, strong manner, and suddenly you find that sweet spot, where you actually feel a sense of ease in all the effort. 

And, after an Acroyoga class, every one of us walks away with newfound self-assurance, feeling upbeat, light, and strong (as well as mildly exhausted). There’s nothing quite as reassuring or confidence-building as stretching the boundaries of what you think you can accomplish to include something you thought would be impossible.

*Photos courtesy of the lovely Candace Cabrera Moore and Elmar Munar, as Win has been off traipsing around Myanmar with our camera

Yoga as a Foreign Language

I have been practicing yoga since my freshman year at Emerson College. I never feel better than when I have a regular, daily yoga practice, but I have a hard time being as disciplined and dedicated as I would like when it comes to maintaining an at-home self-practice. When no one is looking, it’s much easier to be lazy. For the first year of our time in Thailand, we weren’t living anywhere that had yoga classes. It was a very lazy year. But, finding myself in a city with an expat community I set out to find yoga somewhere.

 

I found two places in Chiang Rai: one, a pseudo-hippie café catering to foreigners, the other, marked with a sign all in Thai, except for a picture of people doing yoga and the number 700. It was time for a comparison.

First, I went all-Thai. Since I couldn’t find any info online, I stopped by to ask for times, prices, etc. The woman who greeted me spoke little English and repeatedly said, “Thai language.” Three classes a day, 60 baht ($2) a class or 700 baht ($23) a month, definitely worth a try. I assumed she meant she only spoke Thai. I was wrong. She meant the instructor spoke Thai during class. Oh well, no different from the rest of my life here.

Then, I went to try out the hippie expat café, although with some reservations. I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but many of the foreigners we meet aren’t exactly my cup of tea, which is why I had put off going for several months. I find them to be pompous and abrasive. Backpackers in Aladdin pants, talking about full moon parties and how awesome and fucked up they were, or spouting pseudo-spiritual dribble; I just can’t take it. And spending so little time around English speakers makes it even more difficult to be forced into listening to them ramble on about themselves. (I know I sound bitter, but feelings build up after a year and a half.)

Turned out, they had to cancel their yoga classes for lack of a teacher, but hadn’t updated their website. So, I pedaled on over to my Thai yoga class instead, making it just in time.

Turns out, I adore taking a yoga class in a foreign language. The instructor, a delightful man with a wonderful sense of humor, a big smile, and a fantastic energy about him, does speak some English, particularly yoga-oriented English. He probably speaks enough to teach a full, not very detailed, class in English.

Three months ago, he was very heavy on the English, clearly for my benefit. However, as the classes generally follow a standard ashtanga series and I have been doing yoga since 2005, his English usage has dropped down to practically nothing. When he does say something in English, I know it is directed at me, which is just lovely. He leads a wonderful, challenging class and the Thais enjoy themselves and are all willing to attempt anything. Just last night, we did headstands, handstands, and forearm stands all in one class.

Occasionally there will be another foreigner or two, and the class gets and injection of English, but not very often. My Thai comprehension, while still pathetic, is also dramatically improving. 

Okay, only yoga-specific Thai, but it’s something.