By | 1 October 2015

I dust the cobwebs off my spandex and sneakers. This is where I document my progress. I want to take this moment to apologise            to my muscles for whatever the hell          happened to them the first day. Everyone            is fighting their own battle. Turning up and          giving it your best is better than sitting at          home, wishing you were there. One            thing I struggle with and I’ve known            this from doing yoga before is that I              forget to breathe! Falling for me               is a normal, everyday thing. Stepping          off the treadmill, my left hit the ground and          let out a gigantic crack. I laid there pretty          helpless for about fifteen mins, iced it                and then decided to do arms and abs. Can’t          miss a workout now, its week ten! Who             really wants me to tell you each day was          awesome and wonderful with butterflies and          rainbows? No-one. My jaw doesn’t line up          properly. It cracks and clicks and locks.      Every day, anti-inflammatories for        my jaw and pills for my heart. That’s my          dad right there in this photo, and the little          creature on his lap is me. He was a strong          and active man, a body builder, managed a gym          in Charlottetown. He came down with severe          chest pains. Doctors at Halifax were baffled.          He didn’t make it through the night.          I was eight. And what do you call a girl          who has only worked out twice in two weeks?          ME! You call her me.

Prue Stent remixes this poem for The Lifted Brow portion of this issue.


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