Gaze
I step into the yoga studio, a wave of humid heat washing over me. I am dressed in baggy clothes, sweatpants, and a tee that is too large, even for a woman of my stature. I unroll the loose mat out in front of me, take off my shoes, and scan the room quickly. There is only one other black woman. There is a small gaggle of white women, congregated on the other end of the room from me and this other black woman. They seem far too preoccupied with talking to the yoga instructor, infatuated with the loose curls of his hair and his striking accent to pay much notice to me. On my side, I look at the room-length mirror next to me. My reflection looks back. I spend a few moments admiring the changes I've made. I can see that there are noticeably fewer fat rolls, and my face slimmer. In the corner of the mirror, I catch the eye of the other black woman, staring at me with fiery intensity. I smile at her, and she averts her gaze almost immediately, wanting nothing to do ...