Mirror Twin

I’ve taken to running before breakfast. Dance class isn’t enough. You look healthy, she says. You look so much stronger. And normally I’d feel happy, reassured, maybe even proud, but today is different. I feel anything but strong. I’m tired, easily triggered. Absentminded, like I’m barely present in the room. In my head healthy equals fat. Perfectly fine means overweight. Fit or in shape, is a polite way of saying you could stand to lose a few. Everything feels too tight. The scales lie. I tug at the elastic band. My dance belt and shorts leave pink lines on my skin. I’m growing into my body, becoming more muscular. This is a good thing, something positive. It’s exactly how it should be. But it’s not okay, it disgusts me. I see fat where there is muscle. She talks about healthy eating habits and I stare at my mirror twin. Exercise moderately, not excessively. Practice, then rest. Let your body recover. Everything in moderation. Yes. We nod, but everyone knows it’s bullshit, fat isn’t tolerated here. We’re all perfectionists, chasing the ideal dancer’s build. I’ve never understood the difference between self image and body image, it all blurs together. Maybe I don’t want to understand. She’s so much tougher on the girls. It’s painful to watch, the way she stands behind the “heavy” girl and stares at the two of them in the mirror, comparing bodies. Grown woman versus teenage girl. Thin versus what ought to be normal. The girl looks composed, she even manages to smile. But on her way to the changing rooms she starts crying and the other girls rally around her. She cries like a boy, quiet angry tears. You’re not fat, don’t listen to her. She’s a bitch. I want to tell her about it. Casually, like it’s no big deal. I’m not the only one, I know that. Not in this place where you can’t hide from the mirrors and glances. Spoken casually, it’s less dangerous. Less real. Even to me.