For the past few weeks, I’ve been doing something I never thought I would:  lunging and lifting and hopping in group crossfit-style classes.  And I’m completely enamoured of it.

I’ve tried crossfitty/boot campy things before, but every time I ended up hurting myself.  (One time — with a 23 year old instructor — I couldn’t roll over in bed without waking myself up yelping in pain for about two weeks).  The last time I did it — at my gym — the instructor (a guy in his early 20s) sort of mocked me for trying to hold a yoga-like form in lunges.  “Faster!” And I don’t like doing things without attention to form.  I end up hurting myself.  It makes me angry.  It makes me feel not looked after.  It makes a mockery of every single thing I have ever learned about my body.

In most of my adult life, I have stuck to the things I know won’t hurt me — riding, running, free weights, spinning, yoga.  And the things that don’t involve a lot of instruction — I’m not very good at translating verbal cues to my body without help.

But I’ve have been in a bit of a movement rut.  I was sick a good chunk of the first part of the year, and I tried to do the challenge with my spinning studio I wrote about in January.  I didn’t manage all of it — bronchitis will do that — but I did take on board the idea of trying a new gym.

And then a few weeks ago, I was walking past a fitness studio about a block from my house, and I made about my 50th mental note to check it out.  Then about six hours later, ads for it started to appear in my social media feeds.  I am pretending this is not creepy — I am letting it be a sign.  So the next day, I showed up and asked them to show me what they do.

It’s a fitness studio for women call Move, which I’d assumed was some kind of fancy gym, but it turns out to be an amazing blend of focused, no holds barred strength-building classes.  The fancy part is nice towels and a little sauna and kiehls products — but the gym is all about the best kind of hard work.

I did a class that day and I was hooked.  My instructor at the first class was the young Aussie Alice, and I have never been so well cued, so well supported.  I watched as she demonstrated form over and over, and told new people not to try anything until she had made sure they knew how to do it without hurting themselves, were targeting the right areas.  She was affirmative in a deep and authentic way.  I felt incredibly strong, and incredibly cared for in finding my own level.

Over the next few weeks, I’ve been back to several classes, and every instructor is the same.  Careful demonstration, careful observation and adjustments, advice for every individual in the class.  There’s a sense of community and child-minding and smoothies.  And most important, there is a kind of positivity I rarely find — not cheerleading, just presence and revelling in the strength and intuitive wisdom of women living fully in their bodies.

Last night, Alice was demonstrating pushups and referred to the ones that are typically called “girl pushups” as “patriarchy pushups” — and in her distinctive Aussie way, said, “they invented these to tell us we can’t lift our own bodies, but that’s bullllllllshit.”

The founder Kelly is honest about her own journey that brought her to this place of focusing on strength — a journey through personal training, body building, disordered eating and addictive exercise — landing in a place of recovery that is about strength, not weight or looking good to someone else’s standards:

“My Team and I are here to actively and passionately be a part of the change and create a movement of warriors dedicated to changing the internal question from “how do I look” to “how do I feel?” In our opinion, far more important than how a woman’s ass looks in an Instagram post, no? “

This is a place where I feel at home.  We are in community, but we are each very much doing our own things.  There are always modifications for every action, and encouragement to try the things in your edges. An inherent assumption that everyone will get stronger.  Support for each other if we can’t quite get the moves.  Warmth to the sleep-deprived parents in the class.

Two Saturdays ago, I was noticing that I’m one of the oldest people in most classes.  And then I realized Kelly — who is 8 months pregnant — was working out with us.  And another woman whose baby was due in 2 weeks was in there too.  All modified for what we need.

After 25 years of working out, this feels like a whole new dimension for me — I am feeling confident about doing things I thought I my body couldn’t handle — like lunges and jumps.  I’m interweaving these classes with yoga, with spinning, with walking, with rest.  I already look and feel stronger.  And yesterday, I held an unsupported handstand for a few seconds for the first time in my life.

As I hopped down from that a thought flickered across my mind — this is FUN.  And I realized that I’ve never really felt that about working out before.  I love it, and need it, and enjoy it — but I rarely have FUN.  And this is fun.

It’s magic.

Where do you feel this kind of convergence of everything you need in moving your body?

Fieldpoppy is Cate Creede, who lives and dangles from things in Toronto, and who writes here twice a month and whenever else she needs to say something.

This throwback Thursday urges us to be cautious about fitness research headlines like “Couch Potatoes Rejoice!: Strenuous Exercise May Be Bad for Us.” Punchline: moderation is probably the way to go….

You’ve all heard about my combo holiday/work trip in Spain and France. I told you about walking lots in Spain. See Sam is all sore feet and smiles in Spain .

That was the good bit. I also wrote about a hard bit, stairs. See Stairs are not Sam’s friend.

And I wrote about about peoples’ reaction to my knee brace. See Assumptions about disability and reflections on visibility. Short version, we’re confused when we view the tools people use to get around as signs of the disability rather than as the thing that makes movement possible.

But there’s a fourth piece of the story I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how. I’m still embarrassed about it. I’m also meta-embarrassed. I’m embarrassed by my own reaction.

What happened?

I fell.

I fell getting off a bus in Perpignan. French teenagers helped pick me up off the ground. They all saw my knee brace and figured that’s why I fell. And I guess the stiff wobbly knee probably is part of the story. I’m upset about it.

What happened? Well, it was a big step down from the rear door of the bus to the curb. There wasn’t a rail. (I’ve come to like and need rails for going downstairs.) I gently stepped down but it turned out there was an additional dip–like when you think you are the bottom step on a flight of stairs but you’re not. I went tumbling.

On the bright side, my catlike Aikido reflexes served me very well. I didn’t put out arms to break my fall and thus break wrists. I landed on my knee (ouch) and then my shoulder. I scuffed my shoes and pants and my phone went flying. No bones broken, no phone broken. Lovely helpful local teenagers helped me up.

But it has made me rethink Aikido. I’ve been thinking of my stiff, sore knee as a reason to stay away. Yet if the stiff joint means I’m more likely to fall maybe it’s extra important that I fall well. Maybe the knee is a reason to go? I’m still mulling this one over.

By Susan Tarshis

For those of you who know me or those of you who may follow the fact it’s me, Susan, who usually fills this first Friday of the Month space, it’s pretty obvious that what you have been getting here for the last number of months is Susan-processes-her-break-up-of-long-time-relationship-via-writing. I know that I could write about things that have distracted me or enraged me generally, there is certainly enough to go around. I have processed a few possibilities, but nothing seems as relevant as these things right in front of my face, or in this case, on my legs, in my arm pits and other places that I have spent time grooming the past.

To be frank, I’m on strike in the body hair department. What started out as, what I believed to be, depressive neglect, has morphed into something entirely surprising. I have not picked up a razor in about 4 months and you know what? I DON’T CARE.

I tried this experiment once before in my 20’s. I was in law school. My friends were lesbians and other sorts of radical feminists. I lasted about 2 months and then shaved it all off. What I remember most from those times was my own disgust at my body hair and I figured that if I was grossed out, then that was enough reason for me to choose to shave it. I still believe that, it’s my choice.

There is something different about this time though. Something about the quality of my disregard for my own previously held conventions. This time, the gaze of a particular other was removed and what was left was my own gaze. Let me be clear about this. What was left was My. Gaze. It was not a shadow of a longed for gaze or the shame of a lost gaze or the hope of a future gaze. It was just mine. Me. And I am indifferent to my body hair.

I am also indifferent to the folds of my belly and the sagging skin of my neck. I am indifferent to my aging hands and my drooping eyelids. I don’t mean not appreciative of. I just mean that I have only just recently become profoundly aware in a felt body sense that I no longer need to be looked upon approvingly according to a standard I didn’t set to feel like I am acceptable. I thought this was old news for me but apparently, it is brand new news, because I have been shaving my legs for 35 years give or take a few months here and there and always thought I was doing it for me. BUT I WASN’T. I was doing it for lovers, real and imagined, for others whose desire I understood was somehow hinged on my smooth skin. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the political statement of hairy arm pits is a turn off. There is no question of its impact. Just think about the Williams sisters. What if they stopped shaving? I shudder at the sexist and racist upheaval of internet vomit that would ensue.

Perhaps I have stumbled upon another gift of my 50.5 years on this planet, an achievement unlocked. The rumour was, this sort of thing was linked to “letting one’s self go”. But what if that’s just what they tell you? What if, in fact, it is about “getting an actual hold of ONE’S SELF?” This is my body and I don’t want to shave it. I want to clean it, feed it, move it, love it. I even want it to be loved. But if the price of ever getting laid again is having to shave my legs, then forget it.

*pause*

Just kidding, that’s ridiculous, I would never have to make that choice. Plenty of other people don’t link my leg hair to my sexiness.

I am not advocating for some kind of razor tossing hair growing revolution. I’m not telling you not to shave what ever part of you that you want to shave, or wax or thread or otherwise depilate. We are the agents and authors of our personal expression, as my recent asymmetrical pixie hair cut attests. Our outer presentation is one of the best ways for us to signal our identities and who we want to draw in around us. Maybe all I’m calling out for here is for us to really look at who is looking. What they are looking at and why? Are we showing them what they want for their sake or ours? Even if it is for some combination of our eyeballs and someone else’s eyeballs, let’s at least be mindful of it.

For now, I’m enjoying seeing what I’m growing into. I’m also aware it’s still winter in Canada so perhaps I’m all talk and no shorts and a tank top. I’ll report back in June.