Page 93 of Set on You

After my last set, I show Rhonda one or two basic moves on the machines. I usually start brand-new gym-goers on the machines so they can get a good base before moving on to free weights.

Rhonda tells me about how she’s a recently divorced high school guidance counselor. She moved to Boston from a small town near Atlanta. She’s been “on a self-acceptance journey,” as she describes it. While she doesn’t have the budget to go allEat, Pray, Love, she has indulged in a new haircut and new wardrobe.

When she tells me I’ve inspired her to start lifting weights, I have to sit down on a bench to collect myself. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve felt hope, up close and personal, right before my eyes. Hope that another’s success and happiness can motivate me once again. Hope that this viral incident won’t define me for the rest of my life.

Meeting someone who’s learned to accept and respect herself again after her life was turned upside down is inspiring. Maybe I can learn a little something from her too. So I offer to train her free of charge.

•••

“WATCH YOUR FORM. Straighten your back a little... there. You got it.”

I swell with pride as Rhonda embarks on her third set of squats. I started her off with just the bar, but after only a few sessions, she’s already progressed to one hundred and twenty pounds.

Even though Rhonda’s a decade older than me, she and I have become fast friends. She’s still job hunting, so our sessions are usually in the afternoon. In between her workouts, when she can catch a breath, she updates me about her divorce woes, the fierce custody battle over her two hairless cats, Tim and Tam, and how liberating it is to pee with the door open in her new apartment.

“I’ve even bought a bunch of period panties,” she announces proudly, doing a mini shimmy. “Chuck always hated them. Banned them when we first started dating. I mean, I know Fruit of the Loom isn’t sexy. But damn, those things are comfortable.”

“My ex hated them too. Not my last one. The one before. Neil.”

“Ah, the guy who used you as a rebound?”

“Yup. The one before Scott.”

Her forehead pinches as she registers my immediate mood shift. “What happened with Scott?”

I bite my bottom lip, and despite my loner instincts, everything floods out. Fast and furious. Like someone’s cut a slit through my umbrella in a torrential downpour. I open up about the viral photo. Letting it all out feels like a massive weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Rhonda listens like a true guidance counselor, seated atop the riser, long past our scheduled hour-long session. “This is why Ihide from the internet at all costs.” Her teasing expression is quickly replaced with sympathy. “I’m sorry you feel like you’ve lost your platform and some of your confidence over the photo. That’s awful. Humans aren’t made for that kind of scrutiny. No one should have to go through that.”

“It hasn’t been fun. But I’m managing. I hate feeling like I’ve sold lies to people. I’ve encouraged people to love themselves no matter what. I’m starting to think it’s a lot to ask. Loving yourself all day, every day?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think confidence and self-worth is something you magically attain. And you don’t simply hold on to it forever like a tangible object. It’s fluid. You can be confident in every aspect except one. Or something could happen and all your confidence can be shattered in an instant. Like the Instagram photo. It doesn’t mean you don’t inherently love yourself to the core.”

I take in her words for a moment. “How do I get my confidence back?”

“You’ve gotta find it on your own terms. You rediscover things you love about yourself and nourish them. And not just the things society tells you that you should love. Beauty isn’t objective, you know, as much as society tells us it is.”

I purse my lips. “I don’t know if I agree with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because people seem to like the same things, predominantly. Everyone thinks Scarlett Johansson is hot. The Hemsworth brothers. Idris Elba. Heart-shaped faces. Light eyes. You name it.”

“Only a segment of Western society,” she notes. “Curves used to be revered. And personally, I don’t know what people see inthose Hemsworths. Ripped abs don’t do anything for me. Like, give me some dad bods already, Hollywood!”

I chuckle, picking at the lint on my leggings. She has a point there. Different regions of the world have different beauty ideals. And beauty standards change with time. “Maybe.”

“Everyone sees beauty differently, Crystal. What’s worse, that same society taught us as little girls that we’re not beautiful because we’re not white and skinny. I mean, did you ever have a Barbie doll that looked like you when you were a kid?”

“No.”

She gives me a pointed look. “Exactly. And all these massive corporations that told us we weren’t beautiful—that we weren’t objects of affection—are suddenly screaming at us to love ourselves.”

“And if we don’t love ourselves, all the time, we’re the problem.” I nod, coming to a stark realization. I became part of that machine, selling that idea to my followers.

After my session with Rhonda, I return to my apartment and lie on the living room floor, staring at the ceiling. To be honest, I can’t even remember when I first heard the termsbody positivityandself-love. I’m guessing it was around the time I started my fitness platform. I latched on to those terms with all my might, because I thought they were powerful.Of course I deserve to love myself. Screw society, I thought.

Taking my own advice from my recent Instagram post, I grab a piece of paper and make a list of all the things I like about myself. Not just the things I like because society has deemed them valuable. I also make a list of the things I don’t like.

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