The last couple of weeks have been hell on my ego. It started with a flattering email from a fake writer that I came this close to “agreeing to the terms to market your exceptional book” and then came a different email from a real person. This one said, “We find manuscripts like yours have insufficient reader interest.” Those were nine words that got seared onto my brain. My ego deflated faster than an unknotted balloon. It’s not my first rejection, I just didn’t expect it.
During the past fortnight, after 36 years rolling around like a hotdog, and tangoing like a rabbit, I taught my last creative movement class. The days of being eyed suspiciously when one’s child greets me at the grocery store will dwindle.
“Hi, Vinny and I know each other. I’m Hullabaloo.” I say reassuringly. “Oh yes, of course he loves Hully” they reply, relieved that I’m not some weirdo. My ego is tentative about losing my identity as the person who has more four year old friends than those her own age, however my body is 80% ready for a transition.
One of my favorite routines with kids is “Hawk and the Rock”. I’m a hungry hawk looking for something to eat. Each child sits like Buddha, pretending to be a mouse that’s pretending to be a rock. This old bird thinks she’s going to have a pistachio ice cream, or a chili con carne flavored mouse to eat. But no.
They love being lowered back down to the ground as I complain, “That’s not a mouse, that’s a rock.” Foiled again.
Over the years, my arms have turned into strong, wiry, sinewy, raptor-like appendages.
It’s not the best look, and when my ego is getting kicked around, it means reevaluating all of my shirts in dismay.
“Why is your face so red?” A 5 year old asked.
“You try deadlifting twelve 45 pounds kids in two minutes,” I did not reply.
Which reminds me, I started taking high blood pressure medicine last week. The last prescription I remember taking was Darvon every time the braces on my teeth got tightened in high school. I don’t think this new daily dosage is a big deal but my ego is slightly concerned about now having a condition.
And then this arrived:
“I hope this email finds you well! I’m reaching out because I noticed you haven’t completed your nomination to be featured on Behind Bodybuilders. This is your chance to inspire millions, grow your personal brand, and unlock incredible opportunities—but time is running out!”
“Did they really mean to contact me?” My ego asked coyly lifting itself off the ground.
Let’s think about this.
There’s no way I would complete, much less initiate my own nomination to something like BB.
My bodybuilding journey is a short one. My official weight training began once my fractured shoulder had sufficiently healed, about 3 months ago. I say official because the woman who gave me two 20 minute individualized work out programs is a real live professional. Apparently hoisting kids-pretending-to-be-mice-pretending-to-be-rocks is not quite sufficient for doctor recommended osteoporosis prevention.
Maybe I’m misreading and they want to feature those people behind the bodybuilders, those who inspire, encourage, and support the Lou Ferrignos and the Iris Floyd Kyles out there. That still doesn’t explain my inclusion. (I had to look up famous bodybuilders because I couldn’t spell Schwarzenegger on my own.)
Maybe they are phishing for those of us who use our bodies to earn a living. We sure do come in all shapes, sizes, and areas of expertise. I have a friend who teaches pole dancing and she’s much more fit than me. I wonder if she got the email.
Although my every other day (or once a week) weight routine may be effective, I think it’s the daily application of Gold Bond’s Age Renewer Crepe Corrector that’s doing the trick. I don’t think this kind of testimonial is what the BB’s are looking for.
And then this happened:
“You have good arms,” Mom said after our Oldster yoga class. “You can wear sleeveless shirts.” I pretended not to hear her so she would say it again.
With those nine words, my ego was inflated with helium. I can almost imagine tattooing the words around my slightly defined bicep.
And then this happened:
“Let’s get together and see how we can keep Hully going.” That came from a legitimate (and much younger) educator and colleague. Maybe my hotdog rolling days aren’t over yet.
Sometimes our ego keeps us grounded and tethered and sometimes it gives us the weightlessness needed to make changes.
I may have insufficient reader interest, and a future floating in the air, but someone is interested in carrying the torch I’ve loved carrying, and mom said my arms look good. My ego is right where it should be.
Alexandra Langstaff 