“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, my phone reads at 6:45am. Though leaving my phone in the living room overnight has been a personal house rule since 2008, I bring it in to bed with me when I wake up. I probably shouldn’t do this, I know I shouldn’t. But truthfully, as a single thirty-something gal aggressively resistant to any semblance of an IG Influencer’s bullshit morning ritual, I doom scroll first thing. It’s a loneliness’s breakfast of champions.
“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, these words are like the tiny sharp nail scissors tucked away in the purse of a popular girl who’s just murdered a classmate for stealing her boyfriend.
“Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, the text is from a former Yoga student. She’s talking about the beautiful brand new space I’ve just started renting to teach physical movement classes and whatever-the-fuck-else classes I want to teach…the space I don’t yet know what to call other than “The Space”. And she’s sarcastically telling me to have fun in it because she’s still upset with me about reporting a mutual friend and former student to the health department for opening an enclosed studio while still on lockdown seven months ago. “Have fun at that ‘empty space’”, or, good luck getting people to come to your classes. You will never again have overflowing attendance now that you’re a total tattling cunt. You are nobody. Or something like that. In any case, if she was trying to hurt my feelings, it worked.
In a capitalist ecosystem, there’s an omen of an empty room: that a semi-vacant venue, a poorly-attended workshop, an un-liked social media post and an unfrequented brick & mortar business is a moral failing, a scourge on the part of the host, teacher, owner or performer. Americans, particularly in affluent communities, are taught this the moment we start inviting classmates to our birthday parties, when we compare turnout to other gatherings, when we access our social status in our friend group, if it’s large enough to be considered a group at all. We learn about exile before even recognizing or appreciating the sweetness of inclusion, thus learning we can weaponize displacement by wishing its merciless embarrassment upon each other as revenge.
The fitness industry, particularly Group Fitness, reinforces and heightens this by insisting that oversized classes held in medium size spaces not only symbolize community, intimacy and solidarity but also suggests exclusivity and social status of students and in many ways, the popularity of and demand for the teacher.
Over a decade of teaching at-capacity classes certainly has brought indescribable joy, significant healing and confidence to my life for so many reasons, but it has also fashioned neural pathways for self-doubt, a skewed perception of collective intimacy and a f*cked body image…complements of diet and anti-fatness culture. While it’s true group fitness attendance has a lot to do with convenient time slots, studios and gyms make a point to reward good teachers with prime time slots so, again, how could my worth not be tied to class size? And how could class size not be even a small reflection of my worth?
Having said that, I so badly miss my fifty-person classes. And when it’s not popularity, it’s truly the alchemy of such a large body of people ready to sweat and groove that I long for, lust after and can’t wait to build back…which is why “Have fun at that ‘empty space’” hurts me when really it should excite me.
Any entrepreneur will tell you renting a commercial space is a big risk. And doing it in a way that holds integrity in a global pandemic and keeps others safe is inconvenient at worst, and humbling at best. Though living in integrity does not guarantee fifty people in a room, I’m wise enough by now to know that living from my heart will rarely be “up and to the right” as the world around me defines “up and to the right”; bigger, better, more popular, more well- known, more sought-after, more lucrative, more successful, etc. etc. I also know that building a replica of what used to be or always was is not growth, rather survival, denial and a cheap 25 cent version of a true desire for unity.
I’ll be having fun in that empty space, where possibility, imagination, innovation and movement in all its forms have been waiting for me all this time.
And by the way, it’s not a space…it’s an entire building. And you can come move with me there.
xo,
erica jac