The Next Hundred Pounds

MY BODY IS PUBLIC PROPERTY

Earlier this week, a friend of mine --- a petite, lovely blonde --- was walking her dogs down her own street when a couple of construction workers took it upon themselves to reinforce negative stereotypes of their profession. What exactly was said is lost to the annals of time and translation, but it was sufficient that, when she got home and told her fiance, he was mad enough to go out there and open up a can of verbal whupass. This is a fellow opera singer who recently enjoyed a huge success playing the role of a rapist/murderer on death row, and put in some serious gym time getting cut in preparation for that role. Believe me when I say you wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of his righteous anger. Apparently he scared those two morons so badly that they left the job site, and hopefully they'll think twice about speaking disrespectfully to women minding their own business.

I was on my own yesterday when I went for smoothie at Starbuck's between Afro Belly Samba class and TRX Suspension. I am not a cute, petite young blonde. No makeup, hair in a messy ponytail covered with one of my famous hippie bandanas, sweat-soaked tank top over my shorts and sports bra --- not the vision of glamour. And yet a couple of guys riding past on their bikes saw fit to comment of the quality of my gluteus maximus.

As catcalls go, it was pretty tame, unoriginal, and, well, complimentary. I wasn't particularly offended by it, and in fact if a more unsettling incident hadn't just happened to my friend, I probably wouldn't have thought much of it. Hell, I might as well admit that I was a little flattered. My behind is generous but it's also shapely, thanks to all those squats and lunges and kickboxing. Thanks for noticing, anonymous guys on bikes.

But then, there's the conflict. Because it's inherently disrespectful to remark on a strange woman's body, especially in public. I can't help but differentiate between guys like these, who weren't rude or threatening, and in fact probably thought they were giving me a compliment. They didn't do it to hurt me or make me feel bad, so I can sort of give them a pass. My friend's construction workers are a different story --- they made her feel icky and unsafe in her own neighborhood. 

It got me thinking.

I don't know a single woman who has never been sexually harassed and/or assaulted. The severity ranges from mild (catcalls, brushing up against you, obscene gestures, ass-grabbing) to severe (sexual bullying in professional environments, rape), but every woman I know has experienced it. I once saw it happen to my mother, with her three young kids standing right there. I've had my share of catcalls, unwelcome propositions, and even what I would call low-level sexual assault. (Once, an employer cornered me in a dark place and forced me up against the wall. He thought he was being playful and trying to steal a kiss; I thought I'd tell his wife, and told him so, which more or less put an end to it, but at the time I was pretty scared. Another time, there was a guy behind me on a crowded subway and ... well, let's just say, thank God I was wearing a raincoat). It doesn't matter how you're dressed, what you look like, how old you are ... some guy somewhere is going to feel justified in commenting on your body. Some guy somewhere is going to think it's just fine to use you like one of the ratty old porn rags he's got stashed beneath his mattress.

It's pervasive in our society, along with the general focus on the importance of how women look. Any public female figure, no matter what her accomplishments, is subjected to minute criticisms of her dress, hairstyle, figure, and looks. And if they are found lacking, she is severely criticized for it. It's as if whatever else she has accomplished in her life, she's failed in a fundamental way by not meeting the approval of the anonymous masses. If you're a woman, and you're not pretty, anything you do and say can be dismissed with scorn.

And if you *are* pretty, you are public property; even more so than the average woman. Your looks are sure to be judged, commented on both publicly and behind your back. You may even have a harder time being taken seriously, especially when you're young (witness my sister-in-law, a petite, slight, pretty young woman who could not get banks to take her seriously enough to lend her the money to start a business ... a business which is now thriving, with two locations and many employees). And when those looks start to go, as they inevitably must, there will be more comments. Because while older men can be distinguished, older women can only be "cougars".

There's certainly nothing wrong with being proud of your body, especially a body you work hard to make fit, healthy, and attractive; a body that is strong and able to do what you ask it to do. And there's nothing wrong with taking pleasure in compliments. I'm not going to jump down the throat of a guy who whistles at me, or tells me I have a nice ass ... it's all in the intention and delivery. At the same time, if this milder behavior is acceptable, where's the cutoff where it becomes unacceptable? And however harmless it may be as an individual incident, how much does it contribute to the overall culture that allows women to be objectified? That allows Draconian laws meant to control women's bodies and actions to continue to be proposed and passed --- not in countries where women are traditionally little more than the property of men, such as Iran and  Afghanistan and Saudi Arabia, but right here in our own country? In 2012, we find ourselves fighting the same battles our mothers have been fighting for centuries, for control and ownership of our own bodies. For equal pay for equal work.  For the right to walk down our very own streets without being verbally abused (or worse) by strangers.

All those little things --- wolf whistles, commenting negatively on other women's bodies, not calling people on it when they do it in front of you --- they add up. They contribute to the culture that allows and even encourages abusive behavior. So, maybe I was wrong to let that "nice ass" comment slide. And my friend was right to tear those two lewd yahoos a new one --- although unfortunately, I doubt they took the lesson they needed from it.

What do you think?

*Edited to add this link to a very good and well-written article on street harassment. Julia Gazdag says it much better than I did. Also, be sure to watch the video at the end.

ADIEU

It started out as a wonderful day.

I picked Eric up at the Fort Lauderdale airport, and after a delicious lunch at the Rustic Inn Crab House, where we were entertained by the hordes of iguanas patrolling the shipyard across the canal, we headed out to hike at River Bend Park.

It was a gorgeous day, not very hot at all, with a nice breeze blowing. We were greeted by some very handsome peacocks, who were happy to be admired, and would have been happier yet had our admiration extended to the offering of treats.

Sadly, we were treatless, so we apologized and headed off on our hike. It wasn't very strenuous, since everything was flat and well-paved with crushed shells, but it was quite pleasant.

The trees were full of colorful red bromeliads --- a very large one nearly fell on our heads, probably blown off its perch by the strong breeze.

The lake boasted a full complement of Florida birds, including these beautiful  snowy egrets, wood storks, ibises, and even a solitary roseate spoonbill.

The wood stork flees.

A lovely pair of ibises.

The beautiful roseate spoonbill!

We tromped around for about five miles, enjoying the solitude and quiet, as well as the gorgeous jungle-like tropical scenery.

So, it was good exercise, in a lovely spot --- my favorite combination! By the time we reached the car, it was late afternoon, and we weren't quite ready to brave the traffic. We decided to visit another nearby park, Jonathan Dickinson. It's quite different in character, a lot of sand pine scrub,  which may be traditional Florida landscape but quite frankly isn't very pretty. We were ready for a bit of a rest by now, but we did climb to the top of the observation tower, which afforded a nice panoramic view of the park, the Intracoastal Waterway, Jupiter Island, and the ocean.

And it was here that we finally got a phone signal and received a call from Eric's mom in France, telling us that his dad had suffered a massive stroke, was in a coma, and was not expected to wake up.

We headed back to Miami in shock and grief, trying to figure out the best course of action. I had a show Tuesday night, which Eric was planning to attend, and then we were planning a short trip to Key West before my next performance. When we got up on Tuesday, we heard from my mother-in-law again: Daniel had passed away.Tuesday was spent canceling reservations, rearranging plane tickets, and then I had to go to the show. I only told the conductor, who is a friend, and the stage manager ---  if people had been coming up to me offering condolences all night, I never would have been able to get through the performance.  And I got through it.

Wednesday morning I got up early and put Eric on a plane back to Austin; and today he headed off to France.  This is one of the difficult things about my line of work: I can't go. I need to stay here and finish out my contract. And that's what I'm doing. I've done all I can for my husband and mother-in-law for the moment, except to stay here and keep earning my paycheck. It's not pretty but that's the way it is.

Yesterday evening, after pretty much crying all day, I dragged myself to the gym and took Afro Belly Samba class, which turned out to be a perfect mood lifter as well as great cardio. It's hard to be upset when you're wearing a jingly red silk coin belt and shaking everything you've got. Compared to the other slender little ladies in class, I looked more like a football player running tires than an exotic Brazilian dancer shimmying gracefully, but it was fun.

This morning, it was kickboxing and TRX again. Magda has no mercy and we started class with jumping jacks and a run around the block. It's been quite a while since I ran any distance and true to form, I finished last. It's harder to run with extra weight, for sure. But I can keep plodding on. Class was really hard today. It's always tough, but I guess because of the emotional strain I was more tired than usual and also a bigger emotional mess. That's right, more feelings of inadequacy, more embarrassment at being praised for my fat ass being able to do push-ups, and more surreptitious tears. But I did better at fighting it off, and I kept going. I worked harder. I am determined not to eat this grief, not to let it stop me from working out, not to let it be an excuse. And I have done some comfort eating, but I have not pigged out, and I haven't splurged at every meal. It wasn't perfect but it was better than I might have done in the past.

This is a time of great sadness and stress for my family. I will miss my brilliant, funny father-in-law, Daniel. I'll miss his eagerness to try anything new, miss having to babysit him when we toured sites (because he was the absent-minded professor type, and would become absorbed in something, wander off and get lost if he wasn't watched). I'll miss his absolute delight at all things Texan, especially how excited he was to visit the Alamo and the state Capitol and meet a real, live Texas Ranger. He was beside himself on the last trip when we took them to the Texas Ranger museum in Waco. The way he used to talk to himself under his breath as we drove, remarking on exciting things he saw and reading signs out loud in his heavy French accent. "TexAHSS! Rahn-jairs!" (Texas Rangers!) "West-chest-AIR!" (The name of our subdivision ... he never failed to say it when we passed the gates). He remains the only person I have ever heard actually say "Oh-la-la!" and not sound silly, though I much prefer the expression, "Oh la vache!" He ate barbecued ribs with a fork and knife, and it took me a lot of work to dissuade him from this and get him to eat them barbarically with his fingers, like a real Texan. Like a Texahss Rahnjair would. He was an extremely talented and capable man, who did all his own home and car repairs (as my husband does;  he learned from the best) and handmade all the beautiful furniture in his home. He tiled our back porch for us, beautifully. We always had to find small home improvement projects when my in-laws visited, because Daniel needed work to do, and it would be done perfectly. And although he spoke some English, he often misunderstood things I was saying, and had to be corrected by his wife. Who doesn't speak a word of English, but understands it perfectly well from facial expressions and context. I will miss his quaint turn of phrase --- he learned English from British language tapes in World War II --- especially "We are not oblig-ed to ..." .  I will miss the immense amount of pleasure he took in learning things, visiting new places, trying new foods, living life.

Adieu, Daniel. Repose en paix.

OPENING NIGHT!

It's opening night for Romeo & Juliette!You can see some pics from the dress rehearsal here. I'm  in a few of them.

I like to get a little workout in on performance days, so I went to Pilates. Lots of work on those transverse abs, and when it came time to do planks --- front, side, AND back, which I'd never done before --- by golly I held each one for the full time allotted. I hate planks. Obviously, I need to do more of them.

Yesterday, which was Dark Night (the night off between the final dress rehearsal and opening), I'd set my alarm to get up in time to make it to the 9 a.m. zumba class. But when it went off and I groggily dragged myself out of bed, I realized that I needed to sleep in  more than I needed to work out. I gave myself a day off, and was glad.

What do you think of this graphic? Someone posted it as "inspiration" on one of my online support forums, and while I appreciate the point it's trying to make, I also find it offensive. Not all overweight people sit around eating bonbons and chicken nuggets, and not all slender people eat healthfully. I've seen size 0 colleagues wolf down a large plate of cheese fries for dinner while I enjoyed a salad. That's not to say I haven't had a few cheese fries in my time --- the point is , your size is hardly the only indicator of your health OR your athletic abilities. "Inspiration" like this that promotes exclusion, judgment, and negativity isn't true inspiration.

And with that brief note, I'm off to the theater, packing a banana, a protein bar, and coconut water for snacks and hydration. See you on the other side!

CRYBABY SISYPHUS

I cried today in TRX class. WHAT UP WITH THAT? When did I turn into such a soggy mess? I mean, there are times in every class when you feel like crying because one more rep and your muscles are going to pop right through your skin, but this was different.

Nope. This was a crisis of confidence, and it was humiliating and freaking annoying. Hours later, I'm still pissed off about it.

Kickboxing class starts off with about five minutes of jumping rope, which I am simply not coordinated enough to do. I spend all my time battling the rope and not getting much cardio in. So, I do jumping jacks and run in place instead. Kickboxing IS cardio, and in between kicks and punches, we do more jumping jacks (set of 50 as a class, usually at least 3 times during class), push-ups, squats, and sometimes burpees and squat-thrusts. Then, it's time for TRX suspension class, taught by the same instructor (and most of the women from kickboxing take it, too). Between resistance exercises, more jumping jacks and push-ups. It's WORK, and I love it.

But today, I got tired a little sooner than usual, and tonight is my final dress rehearsal for Romeo & Juliette, so I didn't want to push. I needed to hold some energy in reserve. I started pooping out on the jumping jacks, which made me mad at myself.

And then we got to decline pushups. These are tough. These and planks are my downfall. Magda saw I couldn't do it and told me to just hold a plank, and that is where I lost it. Without warning, I just felt so humiliated that I couldn't do it like everybody else was. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I was so mad. I kept trying but my current strength was just not up to it. So I did what I could, and we moved on to something else which I could do, but that surprise attack moment of negativity had sunk its hooks in, and I couldn't quite shake it off.  So much for telling my inner bully to bite it.  I mean, I told it to, but it wouldn't shut up, and I guess sometimes that's just the way it goes. There were another 15 minutes of class and time and again, the negative thoughts returned. I beat them off and kept going as best I could. I kept telling myself to suck it up, it's not like I hadn't been working hard already for an hour forty-five, just do what I could do and move on. But it sucked.

Sisyphus was a Corinthian king who, in his lifetime, managed to piss off the gods so badly that in death he was condemned to an eternity of rolling a giant boulder to the top of a mountain, where it would inevitably roll back down, forcing him to start all over again. And again. And again.

The task of losing weight and keeping it off seems Sisyphean to me. My unhappiness with my size is what's at the core of my private little hissyfit in class today, and the accompanying feelings of shame and inferiority. It doesn't matter how often I beat those feelings back; they resurface. It doesn't matter how hard I work out, how careful I am with my eating; at some point, I will be at the top of the mountain, and at some point, I'll find myself chasing that boulder back downhill.

Now here's the weird part: knowing and accepting that means it's not necessary to struggle against the inevitable. What I mean by that is, understanding that there are going to be ups and downs, understanding that this is a battle that is going to have to be fought over and over, maybe I can learn to prepare for the downs better and recover from them faster. Maybe the stone doesn't have to roll all the way downhill. Maybe it can balance on the top for a while, and next time, a longer while.

There is really only one thing I have found that works in the fight for fitness, and that is perseverence. As long as you keep fighting, you're winning, at least a little bit.

TELL YOUR INNER BULLY TO BITE IT

One of the things that often keeps us out of the gym, especially out of classes or other group work environments, is that fear of not measuring up. Of how we'll look. How we'll compare to everybody else. We'll be the fattest, the oldest, the least coordinated, the weakest. We won't be able to keep up.

Well, friends, if you're going to a class where you are made to feel inferior because of where you happen to be in your fitness journey, that class is CRAP. That instructor should be ashamed. Class  --- any kind of class --- should be a place where you are safe to work at your own pace, safe to make mistakes, safe to learn, safe to improve, without worrying about whether you're wearing the right brand of clothes, whether you aren't as accomplished as others, whether you look foolish. Don't waste your time on people who want to tear you down.

And don't tear yourself down, either. Give yourself permission to go to Zumba class and flail about sweating buckets, even if you can't keep up with all the steps and don't look as hot as the professional dancer who is probably leading your class. Just MOVE.

Give yourself permission to show up to Pilates and do 70's instead of 100's, if that's what you can handle right now. Yes, there will be a tough old lady there who is totally kicking your ass. Admire her, don't fear her. Make it your goal to be her one day. And next time, do 75.

Give yourself permission to run a 5K or a 10K and not worry about your time or the fact that you're being passed by the wheelchair athletes. Just get out there and put one foot in front of the other. Groove. Do your own thing.

There's a big difference between challenging yourself and setting the bar too high, then punishing yourself for not being able to reach it. If you're in a class where you really can't keep up and it more discouraging than fun, talk to the instructor and find out if there's a meeting for people who aren't as advanced, or ask what you can do to improve your fitness to the point where you will be comfortable in that class. Then go work on it.  But if you can more or less keep up, then get in there and do what you can. Do maximum repetitions of whatever exercise is being done, and don't worry if that isn't as many or as fast as everybody else. Take a lighter weight for now, if that's what you need. By all means push yourself, work to failure, but don't berate yourself if you are really in there trying and not quite getting it. It will come. Negative self-talk is not going to make it come faster, or better.

I continue to be very grateful and inspired by the women and instructors  in my classes at Ironflower Fitness. It's such a positive atmosphere, and people help each other out and encourage each other. Lord knows I can't do 10 burpees as fast as they can, but I can do 10 at my own pace, or I can do 6 or 7 at theirs. And one day, I'll be able to do 10. The mirror confirms that I look quite ridiculous doing Zumba, so I don't look at the mirror --- I look at the instructor's amazing butt, and remind myself that the important thing is to get my own in gear and in shape.

And I'll tell you something else. If you're working as hard as you should be, you don't have time to notice anybody else and you certainly don't have time to stand around gossiping. Or, for that matter, listening to gossip.

This is what I find so amazing and wonderful about communities of athletes. Most of them are encouraging and don't care what kind of shape you're in. They are just happy that you're there to work, and they will help if you ask. I've written about this before but I personally need reminding, and I think probably other people who are not natural athletes do, too; especially if you have memories of being treated badly in your high school gym class.

This isn't high school any more, people, and you don't have to put up with crap from bullies. That includes your inner bully, whose one goal in life is to keep you from getting where you need and want to go. We don't have time for these people any more. Any amount of time and attention they've ever been given is already too much. We've got work to do.

Loved, loved, loved my kickboxing class today, followed by TRX which is just the coolest thing ever. I want a set of those suspension bands; they could go everywhere with me. Kickboxing is a great cardio workout and it makes you feel very powerful! Magda, our instructor, always asks me to sing a phrase in class, so I always try to choose a strong opera heroine to quote. Today was Joan of Arc (Tchaikovsky's Orleanskaya Deva), just the end of her big aria "Prastitye vi". My class wants to come to hear me in Romeo & Juliette. Now that's support!

FAT HATE AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE (AND BEYOND)

An acquaintance told me a really appalling story about a recent visit to the doctor, in which the nurse came in and said very brusquely, "I'm required by law to inform you that you are overweight." This woman is tall, muscular, active, and wears a size 12. Not exactly bending the scales. She was understandably upset by the encounter, and it reminded me of a couple of unpleasant doctor's visits I've had myself.

When I was an undergrad, I spent a summer as a Girl Scout camp counselor in Germany, and I had to get a physical before I went. I was fat, no question, but I was also pretty active. At the time I belonged to a university hiking and backpacking group that went on overnight camping trips to remote locations. As I chattered on happily to the doctor about the activities I expected to participate in at the German camp, including mountain hikes with the girls, he asked if I'd ever done anything like it before. I told him about my backpacking group, and he asked how heavy a pack I carried. "Oh, 40, 50 pounds," I answered. "Wow," he said. "How do you manage that with all that extra weight you're packing?" I was stunned, but having been raised to  be polite to authority figures, I stammered something about it never having had been a problem, and burst into tears when he left the room. The sympathetic nurse came in, and I told her what he'd said, adding, "What does he think I do all day, lie on the couch eating bon bons?" To this day I wish I'd said that to the jerk's face.

More recently, just a few years ago, I went in for a standard check-up for my now-in-remission diabetes only to find my usual doctor had been called away on an emergency, and there was a fill-in. Now, I was still pretty fat, but the minute I got my diagnosis I had started working hard, and lost about 30 pounds. My numbers were looking good, and my doctor was very pleased with my progress. But Dr. Sub didn't bother to look at my charts or ask me any questions. He just launched into a diatribe about all the horrible things diabetes and overweight can do to you, and wanted me to get an EKG as he was certain I was about to keel over from a heart attack at any moment. I was walking one to two hours a day at this point, and watching what I ate. I'd lost even more weight. But all he saw was a fat chick with Type II diabetes and borderline high blood pressure, and that was all he needed to know. Obviously I knew nothing about nutrition or exercise or my own health --- obviously, I was spending all my time crusing the McDonald's drivethrough and stuffing my piehole. He wouldn't listen to anything I said, so I just let him talk, got out of there ASAP, and complained to the nurse. I went home and wrote a letter to my regular doctor complaining about Dr. Sub, and about not being notified that there would be a sub for my regular appointment,which I would have rescheduled had I know. Turned out they got a lot of complaints about Dr. Sub, and I got an apology and a free office visit.

There are a lot of stories a LOT worse than mine about how overweight/obese people get treated at the doctors' office. You can look them up on the internet if you want to get mad, or depressed. Or read some of the ER/medical blogs and see the absolute contempt some medical (some, not all!) have for fat people. Fat hate is out there, there's no getting around it. And yet somehow, it's always shocking when it happens to you.

I don't know what it is about human nature that demands that we make ourselves feel superior to others at all costs --- it's certainly a driving force, and I'm as guilty of it as anyone else. But there's a very odd sort of superiority people feel when confronted with something they hate --- whether it be someone of a different race or religion, a gay person, or a fat person. They feel justified in vilifying, ridiculing, bullying, and just being plain old rude. It's okay, they think, because that person is wrong and deserves to be treated badly for it.

And for the most part, nobody's mind is going to be changed, because if you're that far gone in your hatred, that you feel openly justified in being actively ugly and hateful to someone because you don't like something about them, your mind and your heart are closed. Chances are, there's something very ugly inside you, having to do with the way you feel about yourself, that makes you strike out to deliberately injure another human being for no other reason than that you don't like something about them.

So the targets of this kind of hate are left to manage as best they can.

I don't, and have never, felt particularly persecuted. Thank goodness. Did I get made fun of in school? Sure. Have men said nasty things to me, or treated me like a third wheel in a group of thinner girls? Sure. And I've had my run-ins at the doctor's office, and other places. Once a flight attendant was unaccountably rude to me when I asked for a seatbelt extension. Sometimes it's not even hateful, it's just something like a trainer saying, "I'm impressed that you can DO a pushup", implication being that because you're fat, you're weak.

But the only way to combat these attacks on your self-esteem is to have a good sense of your own self worth, and not let it be all tied up in what you look like. Easier said than done at times. It's a battle I fight every day, and sometimes I'm the one whose guilty of the assault on myself! It's going to catch us all by surprise from time to time --- because unless you're unfortunate enough to live in an abusive situation, nobody expects rudeness and hate. It takes you by surprise, and you don't always respond as strongly as you'd like, and you might even cry and let it ruin your day.

But the next moment, the next hour, the next day, you get up and dust yourself off and remind yourself that your dress size or the number on the scale is NOT the end all be all of who you are. You have a body of knowledge, you have an expertise in something. You matter to people. You have accomplishments and interests and a history that the jerk throwing the hate bomb knows nothing about. Remember those things.

And here's something else: you were a blip in the day of the person who made you feel bad. So don't waste any more time than is necessary to wash the bad taste out of your mouth thinking about them.

Get up. Dust yourself off. Go for a run, do Pilates, take a class, talk on the phone to a friend, volunteer, clean your kitchen (my favorite pissed-off activity), LIVE YOUR LIFE.

And say a little prayer for the bitter heart of the hater. God knows they need it.

SET YOUR OWN PACE

Another costume fitting and another kickbox/TRX two hour class combo survived. I won't lie, my triceps are hella sore.

The costumes are really lovely. I will confess to being slightly dismayed when I first saw them on the rack. They're a bigger size that I'm happy with. But I countered this thought by reminding myself that I had come straight from the shower after Zumba class and logged plenty of workout hours in the last week. It's not like I've been sitting on the couch eating bon-bons.

They were actually a little big this time, and will be tweaked to perfection, but over all they are gorgeous and very flattering. They fall quite beautifully. Another reminder: proper fit is what makes clothing look great on you. The size on the label has nothing to do with it. If you want to look good, get GOOD underpinnings that fit and support you properly, and make sure your clothes are the right size and fit well, even if you have to have them tailored.

I was excited for kickboxing class today. We start off with five minutes of jumprope or cardio of some type. As I lack the coordination to jump rope, I usually do jumping jacks, running in place, and knee lifts. Then, the class does 50 jumping jacks together (usually several times throughout the class), and some boot camp activities. Today's favorite was burpees, this time with handweights. These are HARD! I just go my own pace. I don't really count, I just do max reps.

See, I think this is where a lot of us fall off the wagon. It can be psychologically hard to go to a class, or even to do a DVD, when you are surrounded by people who are thinner and fitter than you. It's easy to focus on the fact that you aren't always keeping up, doing as many reps, doing them as well  or as fast as others. But this is a mistake. Being competitive is fine, but compete with yourself first. If you set the bar for yourself so high that you have no hope of ever winning, eventually you're going to quit from discouragement, and probably end up worse off than before you began. And if you set the bar too low, you're not working hard enough and you're not going to see the benefit. Today's experiences reminded me of when I first started to really work out, and I decided to give myself the freedom to concentrate first on just showing up, which was hard enough without having some inner --- or external --- drill sergeant screaming in my ear. Nowadays, I quite enjoy a good drill sergeant. But a good drill sergeant is one who knows how to motivate, how to take you to your limits, not to make you feel lousy when you're really working hard.

Today in kickboxing class, everybody was doing wheelbarrows --- just like the races you did when you were a kid. It's a kickass core workout. Magda looked at me speculatively, and I could tell she was trying to figure out how to kindly suggest that I shouldn't do it. For one thing, I outweigh everybody else in that class quite significantly, so it would be hard for them to hold my legs. And I stood there trying to find a way to tell her she wasn't going to hurt my feelings. Finally, she said, "Can you do this?" and I said, "I don't know. Let's try." So the tallest woman in the class took my legs, and I managed to do it for a short time, but ultimately, I'm just too heavy and frankly, it's hard on my wrist which was broken and now has pins (I've been paying the price for the rest of the day). So I ended up holding a plank while everybody else did wheelbarrows back and forth across the room.

BUT. The good thing is that I tried, and did a little, and maybe one day I'll be strong enough to do it right. Best of all, in that moment, I made a conscious decision not to get upset about it. I am there, in class, doing what I can. I am not slacking. I am pushing myself. And when it came time for the burpees, Magda told me to just step through rather than jump, and I thought to myself, "Hell with that!" and jumped. I can't bring my legs very far forward, but that is not due to my weight. I couldn't do it when I was slimmer, either; it has to do with how my hips work. Strangely, however, I am very flexible. It's just that certain directions of movement don't work that well.

Anyway, point being, the goal is to GET FITTER and to STICK WITH IT. And I am willing to do that in the way that seems best to me, which isn't always the number one expert recommended way. I'm not saying to ignore expert advice, but rather, to filter it through what you are capable of doing and can maintain.

Those classes wiped me out. I came home, took a two hour nap (which I NEVER do during the day) and spent the evening running all over the stage in rehearsal. And you know what? Even though I have gained back a chunk of weight, I still don't get out of breath doing that, because I've increased my fitness. Not justifying, not settling, but also not discounting what I have managed to achieve.

As for smaller costumes ... well, next time, I hope. I'm workin' on it.

Empowerment (just call me Star).

Um, wow.

This link is making the rounds among my FaceBook friends, a lot of whom are singers and into Crossfit, Paleo, and just fitness, plain and simple. (Thanks and props to the inspirational-in-so-many-ways Twyla Robinson). But it really resonates, and ties in with another recent article from none other than the fabulous, intelligent, totally normal person who happens to be a major Hollywood star Ashley Judd. Ms. Judd refuses to sit back and be silent about the media and public trashing her looks and makes a strong case for standing up to society's pervasive misogeny which so insidiously focuses on women's bodies and looks as the wellspring of their worth. Both of these articles are tremendously empowering, and considering all the scary legislation that is currently being proposed and sometimes passed to assert control over women's bodies, quite timely.

I love what Ms. Judd says: "I do not want to give my power, my self-esteem, or my autonomy, to any person, place, or thing outside myself".

And yet, fat people --- especially women, whose bodies are largely considered public property, at least in a popular sense ---  frequently do this on a daily basis. It takes a great deal of vigilence to avoid it. I struggle with it constantly. As a woman in her forties (and sadly, I have a really hard time with the aging thing) who is not and never has been actually skinny, who has always felt like an outsider when it came to fashion and beauty and all the media holds up as that to which I should aspire, it is a daily and sometimes hourly battle. And I am not a person who has particularly low self-esteem. My ego, if you hadn't noticed, is probably the most robust part of me. How much harder and discouraging must it be for people who really do have to fight for self-esteem in all areas of their lives?

So, how amazing is this "Celebrate Strong" post from Eileen Schreiber? She's had enough of being bombarded with images of what she calls "SkinnyStrong" women (mostly fitness models and professional fitness competitors) being held up as the ideal representative of her own fitness community (in this case, CrossFit). And for the record, she's not bashing SkinnyStrong women. She just wants people who look like her --- like you and me, complete with jiggly bits, whose abs will only see a sixpack if we hold the Bud Light up in front of them --- to be represented as ambassadors of strength and fitness, too. She calls this RealStrong. And Ms. Schreiber has even issued a call to action:  "Post pictures of yourself, of real people you know, and say something uncool like – that fat chick over there motivates me because she is hammering that workout! That chick over there, yeah, thunder thighs over there, just deadlifted 300 lbs.  She happens to have 3 kids.  That is HOT. Make RealStrong the sexiest, bestest  positive thing ever for people like you and me who shine our strength from our hearts, want to share that, and are saying NO to the SkinnyStrong is the New Perfect bullshit that repeats the body image crap we say we have overcome."

Can I get an AMEN?

You know that Rolling Stones song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want (But You Get What You Need)"?  (Young'uns, Google it).

Well, today I got what I needed, and once again, it came when I needed it. Today, having girded my loins with my hot pink Fit Club tee shirt and my tie-dye hippie bandana, I headed off to the gym for my first kickboxing class, followed by a TRX suspension class. Two hours of ass-kicking awesomeness, and you may take it from me, all available ass was kicked.

Admire my sweat.

The spirit of this class of women was tremendous. Led by Magda, a tough, muscley little drill sergeant with a heart of gold, I fell in love immediately. The women in this class were mostly regulars, and one of the first things Magda told me (and the two other newbies) was that if you come to class three times, you get a nickname. She introduced the regulars: Shanti, Xena, Mighty Mouse, Hollywood. (I'm probably forgetting someone --- sorry, ladies). They were friendly and helpful, and this class was a group effort. I've never felt so welcome so quickly.

It was hard work but SO MUCH FUN. Talk about empowerment! You're kicking and punching, and in between, doing sets of burpees, squats, jumping jacks, push-ups, and all manner of punishment. You get to hold this big pad, like a shield, and take turns whacking at it, kicking and punching each other across the room.  IT IS BADASS. You're a badass for doing it.

And even though I was a newbie, and not in the kind of shape these girls are in, Magda zeroed in on my strengths and encouraged me through my weaknesses. Turns out that P90X Kenpo I've been doing is good practice for a kickboxing class. And turns out, at least according to Magda, I'm pretty strong.

Strong was the word of the day for me. Magda praised me a lot for my strength. (She also tells you when you suck at something, or your effort sucks, and I like that).At one point, she told me I was a rock star. Well, of course I had to correct that impression: I am an OPERA star.

And that's how I got my kickbox class nickname on the first day. Star.

TRX is also a mighty, mighty workout, endlessly varied, and doing it right after kickboxing was fantastic. Most of the class stayed on, and we were  joined by some others. Whenyou're not doing body weight resistance work (rows, push-ups, bicep curls, squats, and various things I don't know the names of) you're doing more burpees, planks, push-ups, mountain climbers, jumping jacks, and squats.

I ended up singing for the class while doing bicep curls on the TRX bands (by request of course, I don't just belt it out whenver I feel like it). Turns out one of my classmates is a regular opera goer, and was excited to meet one of the singers. When I left for the day, the instructors clustered around the front desk asked, "Was that you singing in there?" Apparently they could hear me over the music ... well, it was Amneris' curse.

When I started off the workout day, stretching out alone in the studio before anyone else got there, what I was noticing was the undesireable prominence of my gut when I bend over to stretch back and hamstrings, thinking ruefully, "Oh well. Just ignore it. I'm here to get fit, not model underwear."

And when I left, I was noticing how strong I actually am, and thinking, "Now that I'm all pumped up with all that resistance training, maybe I should wear a tank top to rehearsal tonight."

So, yeah. Empowerment. It's kind of awesome. Try it.

THE ULTIMATE GOAL

See why I call it the Barbie Gym? Pink and chandeliers!

Back to the gym today, thank goodness! I did ten minutes on the elliptical as a warmup, then took a 30-minute intensive class called Iron Power Blast. The instructor was a lean, all-muscle, tomboyish Paleo devotee who spent a good portion of the class talking business to her friend who sells her own raw protein bars, and "educating" the class about them and how they can buy them through her. They sound great but I didn't appreciate the commercial on my time. However, the class was still good. We started with lunges back and forth across the studio; followed by squats, and some pretty tough ab work. I went my own pace, and the only thing I had a problem with was the final move, a fast lunge starting from a wide kneeling position. You were supposed to come up from that to a squat. It just hit all of my trouble spots --- knee, hip, and the toes of my right foot --- not the right exercise for me, especially at speed. I asked for an alternative but it was still not great for me. Clearly this is a class for people who are regulars and in better shape than I; I could hang in, but I'm not sure I liked the vibe enough to go back.  At any rate, I got some good sweat on and I am very happy to be back to the gym!

In the pic above, I'm wearing my new Fit Club t-shirt. Fit Club is a FaceBook support group started by internationally known tenor Larry Brownlee, for singers and their friends.  It's got a great positive vibe and is just a nice place to go for a little encouragement every day. We are all shapes and sizes and fitness levels there, and everyone is at a different place in their journey, but it doesn't matter. The most important thing is to show up and sweat!

Members are encouraged to post photos of themselves working out in their t-shirts, so this was my contribution. I baptized that shirt with sweat today.

Groups like Fit Club are a great way to help yourself stay motivated and accountable. After my healthy lunch of greens topped with tuna, avocado, a few olives and a little bit of cheese, I was tempted by some commercial peanut butter crackers that came with the goodies in my opera welcome bag. I picked them up and had them in my hand, and then I thought about Fit Club, and thought, "No way! I'm not eating these! They're nutritional trash!" Sometimes the thought is all you need.

The club motto is "Onward, downward, and fitter!" A good mantra for health seekers. After the last few days, I am reminded that the two most important parts of that motto, for me, are "Onward" and "Fitter".  Although I need constant reminders, focusing on weight loss is not the healthiest thing or the best way to acheive my goals now. Onward --- with every good food choice, with every trip to the gym, with every effort to stop negative self-talk and replace it with encouragement and acknowledgement of successes --- we move forward towards our goals. Fitter --- every healthy choice, whether it be about food, exercise, or how we treat ourselves --- that's the ultimate goal.

SENSITIVITY

The wardrobe guy was definitely searching for words. Italian, his hands spoke volumes as they gestured in large circles, indicating my chest, which was busting out of the too-small, too-short jacket the rental house had sent.  Three women also stood around me, pulling at the fabric, moving my arms here and there, inspecting seam allowances, and musing as consultations in English, Italian, and Spanish whizzed by, simutaneously. Nothing the shop had sent fit, and it was their job to make it fit and look good, but the Italian wardrobe master wasn't happy with the design, not for my body.  "This jacket is for a woman who is much smaller!" he said. "It will not look right on one who is not ---" His hands made slenderizing motions  "--- who is so much more ---" His hands rolled to describe the volume of my breasts "--- voluptuous!" he at last exclaimed triumphantly. He had found just the right word, complimentary and inoffensive, one that didn't come right out and say what he was thinking, which was that I am fat. Or at least, too fat for these costumes.

At least, that's what I took him to mean, and I smiled. It's embarrassing, standing there in costumes that are too small, while the wardrobe people talk about adding panels and making new belts. And it could happen to anyone, even if you're not, in fact, fat --- sometimes the stuff the rental house sends just doesn't fit. So perhaps I am just being overly sensitive. I appreciated his diplomacy, but inwardly winced every time he used the word (having discovered it, he was sticking with it) and also when he gallantly exclaimed that we had to find just the right cut and material for "this pretty lady."

Because by that time, I wasn't hearing  the positive associations of "voluptuous", which after all is a perfectly fine and actually quite sexy word. I wasn't hearing "pretty". I was hearing old tapes, as my friend David calls them.

I was hearing "fat".

Here are some things my cool FaceBook friends said in response to my post about being called voluptuous:

"I like to think it means you are proportioned!"

"I think it is a way of saying, 'You don't have the body of a young adolescent boy with fake body parts inserted or sewn on.'"

"In my mind, that word has always gone hand in hand with some drool dripping down my chin."

How strange and disconcerting it is, having lost as much weight as I have (and put some of it back on), to find myself fighting the old battles. It's much worse, this time --- I am much more bothered by body image issues than I ever was when I weighed over 300 pounds. Somehow it's a bigger failure to be fat again --even if it's not as fat --- after having not been fat for a few years.

But only on some days, like today. On other days, I feel strong and beautiful and unfat, and able to focus on my accomplishments. On other days, I can own the word "voluptuous" and not give it negative associations.

I've had a nasty cold for the past several days, and haven't had the energy for the gym. That's been annoying, and probably a great contributor to my crankiness and sensitivity. But tomorrow will be a gym day, even if I can't finish a class. I miss it, I'm really bummed that the roll I was on crashed, and I'm anxious to get back to it. I'm proud that, even if I have gained weight, I'm fitter than ever before. I'm proud that I eat better and know more about nutrition. 

Tomorrow, I will work out. I will eat well. I will concentrate on fitness and health and on putting one foot in front of the other, because I'm not about to give up.

And tomorrow, I will be voluptuous instead of fat.