Can I Lift Her Up?

There was something about her that was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I’m pretty sure I’d never seen her before, even though I’m here just about every day. Her walk wasn’t particularly remarkable, and neither was her face. I noticed her in the parking lot. Long arms shaped like straws, bending at the shoulders. Legs stretched out one by one, each taking her a step closer to her addiction. Cheekbones jutted underneath her RayBans. Even from my distance, I saw the bones in her hands. The scoop of her tank-top revealed pale flesh and vertebrae protruding like individual bowties. Nikes on her feet looked like clown shoes, so disproportionate were they to the rest of her body. In a word – frail. She walked on ahead and I gathered my things. Checked my email, sent a few messages, popped a piece of gum in my mouth and then headed in.

On the weight floor, I forgot about her. Forgot about the world, really. Concentrated on engaging my core, sending my hips and ass parallel to the floor, and pulling up with my glutes. Deadlift Sunday. Determined to make a personal best, I remained present. Ground my shoeless feet down as the rest of me lifted up. I needed to be in the moment. Immediate. Decisive with my actions. One sixty five came up and went down too easily. I added another twenty pounds. Went to rechalk my hands. Looked up as I was tapping off the excess and saw her again.

Struggling on the Smith Machine with an empty bar, I watched her try to complete one rep. The Smith Machine was doing most of the work, all she had to do was bend her body the right way, and the bar would move on it’s own. Even that seemed like a challenge. I stood there staring at her while I caught my breath. Let my CNS reset. Chasing a personal record isn’t for the faint. I needed to be mentally and physically ready and available. I also had to keep watching her, remembering what that once felt like. 

Those long arms I’d noticed in the parking lot were gripping the barbell as though the forty five pound weight was enough to crush her. The pallor of her skin, ashen look under her eyes. The straw quality of her hair. If I’d been close enough, I bet her nails were brittle. Anorexic.

I recognized her because I used to know her. I used to be her. Forty five pounds cresting across my back would have been too much for me too. Her legs, completely undefined – forget training her glutes. No amount of squats in the world would ever build her booty without her feeding her body. Looking down at my own legs, covered in chalk dust and a deadlifting bruises, I marveled at the change.

I knew I couldn’t save her, at least not without knowing her. But maybe I could set an example. Be something for her that would help her snap out of it. Likely not, though it doesn’t hurt to try. She reset the bar on the Smith Machine and glanced my way. She looked so tired. Undernourished, exhausted, her body was eating itself from the inside out. My stomach rumbled – almost time for my fourth meal of the day. I nodded to her, trying to let her know that I understand the struggle. Approached my bar. Dug my feet into the ground and bent down. Reverse grip, left hand facing out, right hand facing in. Aligned my hips, and lifted up. One eight five came up and went down eight times.

Finished with my set, I casually glanced over to where she’d been standing. She was gone. An hour and a half later, I’d see her on the stair stepper, slowly climbing one step after another, her mind consumed with the madness of trying to be thin.