Vault: Gym Rat Acceptance Speech

Posting this, originally from last spring, to hopefully get me out of my lazy funk and back into GAM (Gym Addict Mode): 

I think I have a problem. I'm addicted to working out.

Looking back, I'm not exactly sure when it began. I remember my first road race quite clearly. It was a 5k. I was 6. I kept the shirt until ninth grade, when it actually disintegrated in the washing machine. Mom was not pleased. Then again, I always had a tumultuous relationship with washing machines. Or, one might say, a healthy appreciation for cerulean blue crayons and a tendency to not empty the pocket of my polo t-shirt dress before putting it in the hamper.

I remember the feeling with odd clarity. The word I used at the time was jello.

"Mama, my legs feel like jello." 

"Leah, that's great! That means you worked hard! You should always push until you feel like jello." 

Can you tell a competitive distance runner gave birth to me?

My knees wobbled, and I imagined myself as some human/Gumby hybrid. Even at age 6, I don't remember this being negative. I remember thinking it was awesome.

Fast forward 20 years... 

20 years, dozens of track/xc seasons, half marathon, Marathon, boxing, swimming, aqua jogging, stress fracture #1, stress fracture #2, anorexia, bulimia, diet #1-17, freshman 15... 20... 40... oh shit, I'm no longer a freshman, but I'm still fat, weight watchers, boxing, yay I look better in a bathing suit than I did when I was 16!

Despite all that, I've never been a gym rat. Until now.

Now that I think about it, it's E's fault. Three or four weeks ago, she suggested that I go to spinning and pilates on Tuesday night with her. When I did this, she went on to suggest that we do three classes in a row the following Wednesday: pilates, boxing, and yoga.

I should mention that we are damned good at pilates. I can say this because for 4 years I thought pilates was boring and easy because I was doing it wrong. So for those of you that are thinking, "Yeah, whatever, I could do three classes in a row if two of them were pilates and yoga," guess what? No you can't. The fact that you are thinking that is proof that you wouldn't last. Pilates, when done well, can burn 700 calories in an hour. Long story short: pilates, boxing, yoga = hella workout

That day I had an epiphany. Well, actually, I didn't have the epiphany until later, and when I explain you'll get why. I'm not sure what happened during those three hours. It's like I blacked out, except there was no whiskey involved. My memory of that night is a large, empty, cavernous space.

It was wonderful. Bliss. Glee. Joy. My mind was blank. NOTHING was in there. No lesson plans. No lists of parents to call. No frustrations. No feelings of inadequacy. No emotions. Nothing.

There was also very little brain activity. I could make my body follow instructions, but that was it. If you had walked up to me and told me it was 1975, I would have believed you without question. If you had told me that my whole life, what I thought of as purple was actually red and vice versa, I would have believed you without question.

This actually happened after yoga:

Someone: Hey, what's your last name? I want to friend you on facebook.

Me:

Someone: HELLO?

Me:

Someone: Hey? You there?

Me: ...wait, what?

Ever since then, I can't stop. If my day's been fine, I just relax. If my day's been terrible, I work out until I can't think thoughts or feel feelings anymore.

It's wonderful. And it works better than whiskey.

Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. Maybe it's not a bad thing. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe instead of calling it a problem, I should be treating it like an award.

And awards call for acceptance speeches.

Here goes:

I couldn't have become a gym rat workoutaholic alone. I had a lot of help. I would like to thank:

• My mom, for giving birth to me, because distance running is in my blood; for teaching me at a very young age the importance of jello in all forms; for providing expensive athletic footwear whenever I requested it, from toe shoes to racing flats. 
• My dad, for passing along his genes, as well as his posture. As a kyphotic superstar, I spent most of my life with hot legs and a big belly. Even when I was anorexic, I still had lovehandles. Without this natural propensity towards stomach flab, I would never have discovered the love of my life: pilates
• Michelle, my pilates/fitness instructor/guru, who is an incredible athlete as well as teacher
• Britney Spears, for going off the fat-bald-crazytown deep end and still ending up with a six-pack.
• My baby ipod, for being the perfect size to clip into my right pigtail during long runs. 
• H, for inspiring me to at least attempt to qualify for Boston
• Asics, for creating such an orgasmic running shoe. The fact that I could probably ramble on for another 1000 words about the intricacies of my Kayanos is proof of my supreme reign over all things nerdy runner. 
• My heart rate monitor, for teaching me a valuable lesson: If you burn 1900 calories running, you have to immediately inhale at least half of those calories as soon as you stop running, or else you'll dry heave, go to bed, wake up at 4 a.m. starving, and eat everything that isn't nailed down. 
• C, for supporting my hatred of pants. This is tied to working out because if I didn't have muscles, I would not go sans pants nearly as often. I haven't seen Cindy in years, but when some guy pointed at me and said, "Is that girl not wearing pants?" Cindy casually responded with, "Nope. She's awesome." Thank you. All APCs (Anti-Pants Coalitionists) should have such a broad support system. XOXO
• My college XC / Marathon coach, for teaching me how to eat while running and not hurl. It is a valuable skill to have when you're a workoutaholic like I am. Related sidenote: No matter how good you are at this, do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to do this while running uphill. You will puke. 
• My gym, for not only supporting, but expecting people to do multiple classes in a row. 
• My roommate, D, for introducing me to bodybuilding.com
• My friends, for being just as into all of this as I am. There is something so wonderful about going out on  Friday night with a group of people who take out their phones to log calories as often as I do. I feel normal around you. This is a rare occurrence. It's also a compliment, in case you didn't know. :) 

Thank you all. Without you, this would never have been possible.

Joseph Pilates (obvi)

Gym Pet Peeves: Judgmental Treadmill Ladies

Judgmental ladies on zero resistance piss me off. You know what I mean. I didn’t specify what area of the gym because you find these ladies everywhere, but there is an epidemic of them in the cardio room, so that’s the example I’ll use.

Picture this: You’re on the treadmill, stationary bike or elliptical, they are right next to you. You’re hauling ass on some insanely high level of resistance, and to the outside world, you appear to be trudging through a mixture of mud, quicksand and molasses. Sometimes it looks like you’re barely moving. Sweat pours down your face. You look like you’ve had the crap kicked out of you. The lady next to you is going buck wild, flying along at a dizzying pace on level .0001. There is nothing wrong with this. To each her own.

But then she leans over and looks at you in her judgy-faced glory, eyes narrowed, lip curled, eyebrows raised, thought bubble above her head containing the words, “Wow, I’m going soooo much faster than you.” You had to go there, didn’t you? Now that you have my attention, I can look at the numbers on your machine and see that I’m working 79,000 times harder than you because I’m 79,000 times stronger, yet you judge me? You somehow think you’re better? Guess what? You’re not pushing yourself. Know how I can tell? You have NO resistance on the machine, and you have enough mental and physical energy to give me the stink-eye. Crank it up a notch and mind your own business.

The worst thing is, it is impossible to ignore these ladies. I’m not talking about the ones who glance over at your machine occasionally. I’m talking about the obnoxious ones who lean over too far and won’t give it up. You can look at my machine all you want if it makes you happy. The issue is that they don’t give it up. If you ignore them, they get bolder. They lean closer towards your machine. I make a big show of looking at the TV in the opposite direction, checking my watch, drinking my water, yet they won’t let up until I make eye contact just to get them out of my personal space.

I have experienced some success with the following reaction. Be warned, this is not for the faint of heart. This is for dealing with a first class obnoxious bitch who really won’t leave you alone. Allow her to give you the condescending eye. Wait 10 seconds. Then look at the numbers on her machine. Don’t glance. Turn your entire face, partially turn your shoulders, and stare at the digital display on her machine for at least 6 seconds. Then, do the same thing with your own machine. Look at her legs, pretending to gauge the pace. Look down at your own legs. Look at some spot in between both sets of legs, so you appear to be comparing the respective paces. Look back at her numbers. Look at your own. Raise your eyebrows, curl your lips into a hint of a smile, and nod slightly.

If you follow my instructions perfectly, the following thought bubble will appear over your head:

“Hmm… No wonder your legs are moving so much faster than mine… You have your machine set at the easiest level. Well, good for you, joining a gym for the first time. We all had to start somewhere.” 

Anorexia is easier to swallow on television.

Anorexia is easier to swallow on television.

It’s all the same. it starts with a couple of innocent remarks taken the wrong way, exacerbated by unrealistic cultural ideals of beauty. Multiply that by underlying issues already present in the person’s life and it’s the perfect recipe for an eating disorder.

There’s always those first few scenes of the protagonist smiling coyly and saying, “No, thank you” to the French fries in the lunch line. Onlookers gasp and marvel at her willpower. Cut to a scene of the boy/girl/talent agent finally noticing her coupled with the obligatory clichéd dialogue: “You look fantastic! What’s different? Did you do something with your hair? You look amazing! What’s your secret!” Knowing smile on the screen, snickers and sneers in the audience.

Move to a dramatic montage of our protagonist running, wild-eyed and rosy-cheeked, through whatever interchangeable city this tale is set in. She’s strong, so strong she passes all the runners on the street. But the next day her hair falls out in her brush, and the day after that Mom notices that she’s always skipping breakfast, and leaving dinner early.

Now we move to the part of the movie where her deceptions get sneakier as she tries to hide the disease that’s taking over her. She stares at her ribs in the mirror, looking dissatisfied. Maybe she sews extra weight into her sweatpants, because she’s wearing sweatpants now to hide the weight she’s losing.  

Then her parents fight, if they’re not already divorced, because screenwriters love to blame eating disorders on the parents’ failed marriages. She spirals downhill and out of control until someone intervenes, usually a hospital, because she’s fooled her doctor at least once already. The movie ends with our leading lady in whatever sport or activity she started out doing in the beginning of the movie, but now she’s healthy and happy. Credits roll.

We love it. We love our conflict cut and shrink-wrapped into half-hour sitcom or 90-minute lifetime movie packages. It doesn’t matter how terrifying the conflict is in real life, we’ll gladly escape our own troubles to watch someone else’s from start to finish, cause to effect, problem to solution.

Anorexia is not like that. 

What is up with cilantro?

What is up with cilantro? Can we just take a minute to discuss how thoroughly obnoxious cilantro is? It stays fresh for roughly 2.4452 seconds before devolving into a pea-green mushtastic situation that leaks all over the rest of the vegetables in the crisper and renders them unusable. What the hell, cilantro? I wouldn't have as big a problem with it if cilantro were more consistent, but no. Cilantro has an agenda. If I buy cilantro on Monday, and intend to use it on Wednesday, the cilantro mushifies by Tuesday. If I buy it on Monday and intend to use it on Tuesday, it mushifies by Tuesday morning. If I buy it on Monday and intend to use it on Friday (why I'd ever do this I don't know, but hey, stupider things have happened), IT STAYS FRESH UNTIL THURSDAY NIGHT and then... nuclear mushsplosion. What's your problem, cilantro? Do you have it out for me? What did I ever do to you? My brother has a vendetta against you, but I've always stood up for you. This is how you repay me? If I didn't love guacamole so much I'd dump your mushy ass so fast...

I hate being a grown-up.

I hate taxes, bills, and the way I have to tip-toe around life for fear my financial situation will collapse even further.

I hate stretch marks, freckles, and the fact that I can no longer have 5 drinks, 2 slices of pizza, and half a bag of Sour Patch Kids with minimal consequences.

I hate being hit on by obnoxious 22 year-old guys, yet somehow, they are magnetically drawn to me. Like mosquitos.

I hate the way the dust never seems to go away completely because by the time I'm finished cleaning one part of the room, new dust has appeared in the part I cleaned five minutes ago.

I hate loans, APR, carbohydrates, and that the only consistent thing I can count on my body to do is become less efficient with age.

I hate that when things make me so angry I could punch through a window, I can't do anything about them because I'm a grown-up, and it's not okay to punish people who double park, cut you off in traffic, cut in at the last second when you've been waiting in the long line of cars for 20 minutes, and are generally incompetent useless fools as you see fit.

I hate being a grown-up.

SLAM POEM: An Open Letter to the Girls on the Train

*inspired by: thin girls on the subway complaining (loudly) about being fat

I’d like to say something to the girls on the train.

You don’t know me, but I know you.

You live in front of your mirror, always asking it

questions. It’s your confidante, your guru, the one you never leave the house without consulting because

God forbid

you ate a cookie and your pants are tight

God forbid

Your belly hangs half an inch

over your waistband

God forbid

you have a waist

and hips

and a mother that feeds you muffins

made with real sugar sometimes

GOD FORBID.

I know you.

You hold your breath in the fitting room,

cut the tags off your jeans,

freeze the chocolate so you won’t

eat it and snap your teeth.

I know you.

You compare yourself to everyone who walks by

Wish you had her legs

Her smile

her ability to eat just one oreo and put the rest back

I know you.

and I have some advice.

Eat.

The. Cookie.

Not because you should.

Not because you can.

Not because it’s there,

and you’re sad,

and he didn’t call,

and you already ate fries,

so the diet can’t start until tomorrow anyways.

eat it because you want it.

Taste it.

Let it melt on your tongue,

invade your thoughts

your being

your every last taste bud

until your eyes roll back and you have to sit down

while the world spins faster and faster

with all the wonder wrapped in this

tiny, sweet, circle.

Then stop,

drink some water,

and get on with your day.

Because it’s just a cookie,

and you’re just a girl on a train

and he’s just a boy who’d probably love you

even if you were two pounds heavier

and if he wouldn’t, then he’s

not worth it.

So eat the cookie.

Body Image Issues: The Beginning

My earliest memory involves the pool at our house in Texas. It was a beautiful pool that I loved to spend hours in. I was probably 6 at the time, and that summer my prized possession was my set of three matching bathing suits. They were one piece suits with spaghetti straps, and a little ruffle around the hips. I had them in blue, pinkish-red and another color that I don't remember. The suits themselves were irrelevant but for the sparkles strewn across the material. I loved them more than anything. They had multiple levels of sparkle, you see. The material itself had a slight sheen to it, but sparkles of different sizes were sewn in on top of that. If my mother had allowed it, I would have worn those suits to school. As it happened, this was shortly after my phase of wearing shower caps to the grocery store, so she was holding her ground. 

I loved those bathing suits. I loved the way they shone. I invented occasions to wear them that made very little sense to anyone not inside my six-year-old mind ("peanut butter and jelly bathing suit time!" "bathing suit breakfast!"). I can still feel them against my fingers: stretchy, slightly prickly, but durable. That material was strong, virtually indestructible. 

In my earliest memory I am standing in one of those bathing suits -- the red one -- running my hands over the fabric, only this time it's different. This time, instead of marveling over the beauty of my swimsuit, a new, foreign thought snuck in. I ran my hands over the slinky material covering my stomach and thought...

Hmm... My stomach sticks out a lot from the rest of my body. 

I don't remember what happened next. In fact, I don't even remember where I was, not perfectly. This memory happened over and over that year, and every year following, so it doesn't matter where I was. Change the background a dozen times and the picture is still the same:

A six-year-old girl who would never feel comfortable in her own skin again.