The Next Hundred Pounds

STRIPPER STRETCHING: FIVE HOT GIRLS AND ME

Viveca Jenson's Piloxing class (mixture of Pilates and boxing)

Ever noticed how, in photos of people engaged in fitness activities, there are never any fat people? I'm not talking about candid shots, but any sort of marketing or publicity photo. I get regular newsletters from LiveStrong, C25K, various magazines, and all sorts of other fitness organizations, all with lots of colorful pics of people engaged in all sorts of healthful activities, and there is never even one person who is even slightly overweight, unless it's in some sort of rude way, meant to show a lazy slob or a before/after pic. Or if it's a Richard Simmons product, 'cause Richard is not afraid of having the big people in his videos. Yaay, Richard. In fact, most of the people in the pics, especially the women, are oddly matchy-matchy in size and body type. And they usually have a lot of makeup on, and their hair looks bizarrely good for people who are supposedly engaged in sweat-inducing activities. I don't know about you, but when I'm working out, the last thing I want is makeup dripping in my eyes. My hair is in a ponytail and tucked under a bandana, which is not at all attractive but keeps hair and sweat out of my face.

I get why marketers want to do this. They want to present the most attractive people possible in order to 1) make you think this is a hot place/product filled with shiny beautiful people; 2) make you feel bad if you don't look like that, so you'll buy whatever they're selling in order to get yourself looking like that; 3) make you think that you are going to be one of that good-looking, well-groomed club if you buy what they're selling. I mean, if you're really using a gym the way it's supposed to be used, you are going to be disgusting, stinky, and dishevelled, at least til you hit the locker room. But reality don't sell memberships. So, shiny people.

Ironically, feeling out of place, or worrying about what they might look like, or how they'll keep up, actually keeps a lot of people from joining a gym or doing a physical activity. It's a fallacy, by the way. Sure, there are jerks out there, but this isn't your high school gym class anymore. Most athletes are really happy to have anybody join their club, and they admire effort as well as results. They will cheer you on.

Nevertheless, I often experience fish-out-of-water moments at the gym. Last night's new stretching class was a perfect example --- everybody else in there was slender, graceful, lookin' hot in their cute exercise togs, and all seemed to have dance training to match their dancer bodies. I don't begrudge them any of this, BTW. But then there was me, wearing a stained Livestrong T shirt, bike shorts, and a bandana. I did not feel sexy. I felt like a beached elephant seal as we rolled around on the floor. I immediately nicknamed it Stripper Stretching. It didn't help that we did it in the dark, accompanied by sexy music,  in the pole dancing studio. There was a lot of writhing around. If there had been men there, those ladies would have walked out with a lot of cash tucked in their spandex. And they would have deserved it, because they are marvelously athletic with beautiful, toned bodies, and boy are they bendy.

If I tried to protect my ego by never doing anything where people might look at me crossways (not that anybody did; no one at this gym has been anything but friendly and supportive), I'd never do anything at all. I made a decision a long, long time ago, way before I seriously set out to transform my body and fitness level, that I was not going to let being fat stand in my way of doing anything I really wanted to do --- assuming it was safe, affordable, and legal --- and that included dressing nicely. So when I go to the gym, sometimes I feel embarrassed because hell --- *I* don't want to look at myself in cute spandex workout outfits; my workout clothing mantra is "comfortable, cheap, supportive, covers the fat rolls". Or because I can't shake my entire body the way some of those girls in Zumba class do, at least without throwing my hips out  of whack or just looking like I'm having a seizure; or because I'm still really crappy at planks and sure as hell can't do them with my feet through the TRX handles, at an incline (but I can do pike pushups on the floor, and that's by God what I do when everybody else is doing'em with the TRXs).

This philosophy extends to other areas of life, too. The very high probability that I will look like an idiot doing something is not a good enough reason to keep me from trying it, if it interests me.  The very high probability that I will fail, or not be very good at it, at least at first, is a damned lousy reason not to try something. Because the fact is, morons with low self esteem and big mouths aside,  the majority of the people you encounter in any given situation are too worried about how inadequate they may appear to give a second thought to you.

There was a lady in Zumba class today wearing a great t-shirt that read STRONG IS THE NEW SKINNY. I found that inspiring (as did a lot of other women in the class, who clustered around to admire it). This shouldn't be taken as a dig against skinny people; but skinny isn't attainable for everyone, and all things being equal, strong is, if you're willing to work for it. So I approve that message.

The point is, don't let anybody hold you back from your goals. The most important thing is not whether you fit in, whether you look good doing it, whether it takes you five times or five thousand to get it right. The important thing is that you are out there doing it, because you want to, or because you want what it will bring you more than you want to indulge whatever is in your way.

Go out there and get your share.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SURRENDER

I had a really profound experience in yoga class tonight.

The gym I've joined has an association with the yoga studio upstairs, and you can attend certain classes at no additional charge. The gym itself isn't open on Sunday nights, but there is a 6 p.m. vinyasa class, and it sounded like the perfect end to the week and possibly a remedy for my extremely sore shoulders and upper back.

The studio is quite lovely and serene. I liked the atmosphere the minute I arrived. Because it was my first class there, and I wanted to make sure I got a spot, I had arrived fairly early, and was able to enter the studio alone. Along one wall was painted a beautiful mantra: May I hear Truth. May I see Truth. May I speak Truth. May I feel Truth.

While I waited, I was drawn to a table which had a small sculpture of an angel, which was a sort of cardholder. There were some cards with stylized hearts on the back, and I picked one up to see what it was. It was a sort of a tarot card, I suppose ... tarot isn't the right word, but it was some type of divining card, and it said VUNERABILITY. Then I noticed a book with the same stylized heart on the cover, so I thumbed through it and sure enough, there were pages corresponding to the cards.

Vunerability, the book said, did not mean weakness; on the contrary, it meant strength. It meant being open but also being able to protect yourself.

It said a lot of other stuff, too. But that thought did resonate with me. I lay down in shivasana to wait for class to begin, and set my intention: listen, and release.

The class wasn't at all crowded --- there were only five people, tops, plus the instructor, Marisol, who immediately welcomed us warmly and reminded us that we needed to listen to our bodies and do what our bodies wanted to do today, not to compete with others or with ourselves. That, I thought, is a lesson for all day every day, not just yoga practice!

Well, my body had definite ideas about what it did and didn't want to do. My arms and shoulders were already so sore and tired that it was very hard at first to stay in Downward Dog, let alone hold in plank or perform chaturanga with good form. As often happens with me, for about the first half hour of practice the lactic acid built up quickly in my feet, causing a lot of pain and making it very difficult to hold some of the poses (it always goes away quite suddenly, but up until the point it does, it's agony). So I was struggling quite a bit, not only physically, but mentally. It's difficult not to be competitive, not to shame yourself for what your body can and can't do. I kept doing my Ujjayi breath  to bring my attention back to the moment --- pranayama is always a challenge for me, because of my singing training. I have to really think about whatever specific type of breath the practice calls for, or I'll revert to singing-type breathing (which sometimes is great for yoga, and other times not). There are some poses I just can't do because of the limitations of my hips; one of my revelations upon losing weight was that all that time I'd thought I couldn't do XYZ because I was fat, when it really was because of the way my body is put together! Some days my balance just isn't all that good, and this was one of those days. The funny thing is, I wasn't particularly frustrated. I just kept going, modifying as necessary, saying to myself, "This is what my body wants to do today. This is what it CAN do today, and that's okay."

Marisol would have us get into some particularly difficult pretzel pose, like ...oh, say, Pigeon, which is a hip opener and hard on my hips even on good days (which this wasn't). Then, as we contorted there, breathing into the stretch and trying to release further the way you're supposed to do and, in my case, ignore or at least breathe into the pain, she would walk around the room talking. Talking about gratitude, asking us to think of three things for which we were grateful. Talking about visualizing our dreams, feeling them, feeding them energy, taking the time to really richly imagine them so they could have a chance to become real. Talking about success, and what it really means. Talking about surrender.

When we finally stretched out into shivasana, she asked us again to surrender, and walked through the room anointing our open palms with lavender. As I lay there, breathing deeply and trying to release all my muscles which were very tense, thinking, "Surrender, surrender, release",  this music came on. It was Indian music, deep and powerful, moving.

And I started crying. Just a little at first, and then more and more. I actually made a conscious decision to cry --- there was a moment when I thought, "Do I really want to do this here, in a room full of people?" and then answered myself, "I need to do this here and now. For whatever reason, I need to let go."

I cried silently, but the tears were running down my face, my mouth gaping open as I kept breathing deeply. Something inside me was trying to get out, needed to come out. There was a struggle, both spiritual and physical, as I tried to relax and let go without making noises that would disturb my classmate's practices. I cried harder and harder, trying to breathe and let my muscles go. An intense pain rose between my shoulder blades. I couldn't lie still, though I kept trying to release the tension. I was spreadeagled on the floor, trying to surrender and release, and probably looked like I was possessed. But this --- whatever it was --- was tethered, and the hold would not quite break. I knew in that moment what it was --- something I thought had been resolved and healed, and, as it turns out, is not entirely. I knew what triggered it --- I am intensely homesick right now, and want nothing more than to sleep in my own bed with my sweet husband and my dogs, and get up in the morning and go outside and smell my roses, and see the bluebonnets that are blanketing Texas in their deep violet embrace this spring.

And I knew that I would not be able to release this thing entirely, not in that moment.

Marisol came over and gently massaged each of my feet. I felt a little ashamed, not knowing if she was doing this for everyone or just me, but I was also grateful. I didn't want to draw attention to myself but at the same time, I clearly needed this. You hear about this sort of emotional outburst happening sometimes when people have massages; the body stores trauma deep in its tissues, including emotional trauma, and sometimes when those tissues are touched in certain ways, the trauma is released and memories or emotions come flooding to the surface. It happened to a friend of mine, who at age 54 was having a massage one day when he spontaneously recalled a deeply repressed memory of being sexually assaulted by a relative when he was very young. He remembered every detail, and it not only provided some relief he didn't even know he needed, but it connected a lot of dots for him.

I think my outburst was similar. Something about the work and the focus on release, surrender, release we did in class brought emotions to the surface.

Class ended with a recitation of the Truth mantra and a heartfelt "Namaste" --- such a beautiful word, such a beautiful thought. I remained in the room, breathing deeply and trying to get myself under control, though I was not at all done with this emotion. I left feeling a little stunned, a little empty ---not necessarily in a bad way. Much of my muscle pain and soreness was gone, too.

I'm especially grateful for Marisol's gentle guidance throughout the practice. As bizarre as it was, I am glad I had this experience, and that I made the discoveries I did.

The work goes on.

ON LIMITATIONS

I'm having a sort of crappy day, energy-wise, and it really pisses me off.  Everything's been great for a week, and bam! Today is a weepy, fatigued day, and I don't feel up to walking, which makes me mad. It's got to be hormonal. But I'm going to try not to stress about it; instead, I made an appointment to see my gynecologist, and next week I have a physical scheduled. It's pretty cold today anyway, so I'll stay in and ride the stationary bike later.

Meanwhile, there's been some great inspiration floating around the interwebs today. I love this post from Joshilyn Jackson, especially since I am usually the fattest girl in yoga class (even after having lost weight), and I especially love that my skinny Bikram-lovin' friend Chuck is the one who posted in on his FaceBook status, bringing it to my attention. I don't practice yoga as often as I'd like, but one of the things I was kind of thrilled to figure out about myself after years of Fat Yoga followed by Not So Fat Yoga is that my bendiness and/or ability to easily accomplish certain asanas has a lot less to do with how much weight I'm carrying and a lot more with how my body is put together. I've always been pretty bendy. On a good day, I can touch my nose to my knees from a standing position, and I can do the splits, and I could do them when I weighed over 300 pounds. My downward dog is great, despite chronically tight hamstrings. But I have never, ever been able to do that thing where you jump your feet up next to your hands or step your leg through to runner's pose. I can do a great, low lunge from a standing position, but I can't step through very far --- I always have to put a hand on my ankle and move the foot up, which if you practice yoga regularly, is SO ANNOYING. I always thought this was due to my fatness, but now I know that it's because I am simply not flexible through the hips, not in that direction. Anyway, this article was a great reminder that WE ARE NOT OUR FAT. It doesn't rule us and it doesn't have to limit us, if we don't let it.

In a world where we are so often reminded of our imperfections, mostly as a way to make us BUY MORE STUFF, I found this video not only funny but inspiring.

 

Don't get me wrong; I like makeup as much or more than the next girl; I get my hairs did; I love mani/pedis and facials and fancy shower gels and creams that promise all sorts of things but don't really do much more than feel and smell good; and quite honestly, at this point if I could afford to have everything that sagged tightened up, I'd totally do it.  There's nothing wrong in trying to look your best. But there is something wrong in being desperate about it. All this stuff should be FUN and if it's not, it's not worth doing. Besides which, if you are over 40 your goal should not be to look young --- it should be to look fresh. Current, age-appropriate clothes and makeup, complexion glowing from drinking lots of water and plenty of fresh air and exercise,  a good attitude, and lots of interests in life and the people around you will make you beautiful and fascinating until the day you die.

You are enough. Don't let anybody --- especially people who are trying to get in your pants (to get your wallet, or anything else, for that matter) --- tell you otherwise.

 

 

 

 

DEEP THOUGHTS FOR 2012 (ALSO A DISGUSTING STORY)

New Year's Day dawned beautiful and balmy here in Texas, so we took advantage of it to go on a nice, two-hour jaunt. Eric and I walked, and my sister-in-law and two of my nephews biked along with us. It was great to be moving around out in the sunshine with family.

I'm feeling SO much better than I was a couple of days ago, but still not up to par. So I called my doctor this morning and was surprised to find that I haven't been to see him for two years --- the nurse didn't recognize my name, said my charts were in storage, and they might have to readmit me as a new patient (I could hear the ka-ching ka-ching for that one ... I'm sure this office visit will cost more. And my crappy insurance probably won't pay for the bloodwork). This is one of those good news/bad news scenarios. I haven't been sick enough to go to the doctor for two years. I probably should have at least gone for a checkup, however. Well, it's  clearly overdue, so whether or not my insurance covers it and whether or not I have to pay extra, off I'll go. Just as soon as the nurse calls back and confirms an appointment with me, because she was very confused by my status. AM I OR AM I NOT A PATIENT? We all wait with bated breath for the resolution to the first major drama of the new year.

Actually, the first major drama of the new year was that Lila, pictured below,  stole and enjoyed an (apparently) delicious yet utterly disgusting tampon snack (all together now: EEEEWWWWW!), but thankfully I managed to get to it before she ate the string, or all of my income set aside for medical matters would have been going to the vet. We have to watch this little girl. Normally her kleptomanaical activities are restricted to my husband's dirty socks (which she only hoards, and does not eat) but she has also liberated a bottle of Vicodin from my purse --- thank goodness for childproof caps --- as well as some Crabtree and Evelyn soaps. Lila is a strange little critter, and she lives life without regret. It's a good thing she's so cute.

The Wretched Creature

Generally speaking, I try to avoid places like the gym and fitness classes during January, as they are especially crowded with those determined to turn over a new leaf for the new year, working out in a frenzy which usually dies off by mid-February. No disrespect to their devotion and determination, however short-lived it may be. I of all people know that some of us need to make a lot of false starts before we can keep going for any length of time. It's just unpleasantly crowded, and the regulars all breathe a sigh of relief when things get back to normal. But a nice Groupon appeared in my email box at a most fortuitous time, and as a result, I've signed up for two weeks of unlimited group fitness classes, a deal which includes a nutritional assessment (all for TWELVE BUCKS, people)! I figured that it would be a great way to jumpstart my re-entry into a regular workout schedule, and if I like it well enough, I can extend it until I leave for Florida in February.

My goal for January (besides seeing the doctor and figuring out what might be going on) is to work on figuring out what is sustainable for me moving forward, in terms of eating and working out. My lifetime fitness goal is to be as healthy and fit as I can be --- but that may need to get more specific. I'm thinking about what that means right now and for the near future. I need a fitness goal for 2012!

Speaking of which, here's the  Big Thought I've been mulling for the past several days: the focus really does need to be on overall fitness, not just on one  or two aspects of it (eating, weight loss).  We need balance in all things and those of us who struggle with weight tend to really obsess about that one thing, when we really should be looking at being able to lift more, move faster, get our blood pressure down, run farther. If we concentrated on those things, the weight would come off faster and easier, and without as much angst, don't you think? 

HAPPY NEW YEAR! WELCOME 2012.

Happy New  Year, everyone! As we say goodbye to 2011 and welcome 2012, it's a time for celebration, reflection, and looking forward with hope and optimism. I personally am looking forward to spending the better part of February, March, April, and May in Florida, where I'll be singing first with Sarasota Opera and then with Florida Grand. This marks the longest continuous time I've been on the road in my entire career; thank goodness for all those saved-up frequent flier miles which will permit my husband to come visit several times!

I am also looking forward, with optimism, to getting myself back on track with consistent healthy eating and exercise. It's been a very rough Christmas; I've been battling an unusual amount of fatigue and distress which are simply not normal for me. At first I thought it was just holiday stress, exhaustion from all the travel, lack of sun, and other winter-blues type stressors, but  thanks to Dr. FaceBook and a bunch of wonderful and wise women friends, it seems very possible that there's something physical going on.  On Monday I'll be calling to make a doctor's appointment and have some bloodwork done, and then we'll see. In the meantime, I'm trying to be good to myself, with lots of rest, naps, puppy therapy, cuddling with the husband, moderate workouts (did my Kenpo yesterday!) and healthy food, as well as extra B12 and Vitamin D.

THE YEAR IN REVIEW

In January 2011, I returned to Chicago for the second phase of my cover contract with the Lyric Opera of Chicago. It was a wonderful experience; I hadn't been back for any great length of time since my apprentice days there, and I LOVE working for this company. Also, I really enjoy Chicago, even in the dead of winter.  Upon arriving home, I got a very painful cortisone shot which eventually helped resolve my ongoing foot/knee/hip problems so I could start running again. I also started what would be my final semester of teaching at St. Edward's University.

In February, I started my first round of P90X and quickly fell in  love with the program. The Tower of Pain moved into our bedroom (a year later, I still can't do pull-ups; but my back muscles are stronger).  Also, I took a very special road trip with my niece Gracie to the American Girls store in Dallas, bought her a doll named Josephina, and really really really wanted to buy some stuff for myself. But this is why we have nieces.

In March, I returned to my roots by performing some Irish folk music on a fundraiser concert for my school choir's trip to Ireland. It was fun to sing this stuff again --- it's what got me into voice lessons and, eventually, a career in opera. My in-laws came for a long visit and we toured all sorts of interesting places, including the Texas Ranger Museum, Fort Sam Houston, and a mammoth bone excavation site.

In April, I sang in a studio class for the first time in about twenty years (Studio Class is sort of a group voice lesson) and produced an evening of four one-act American operas, including The Medium, which I directed. The day after strike, I was on a plane to Boise, Idaho to make my role and house debut as The Marquise of Berkenfield in The Daughter of the Regiment. This also marked the beginning of my Wild 2011 Season.

In May, we saw the death of Osama bin Laden, and more tragically, the great baritone Giorgio Tozzi, with whom I'd had the privilege of working briefly. Eric and I enjoyed some great hiking in Idaho. When Daughter of the Regiment closed, I once again jumped on a plane and traveled all night to get back to Austin in time for juries (final exams for singers). Was home for nine days before departing for my next singing adventure.

June was spent in beautiful Princeton, NJ, rehearsing one of my favorite roles of all time (Baba the Turk, the bearded lady in The Rake's Progress), riding a borrowed bike along the canals, cooking with my friends Pablo and  Nicholas, racing up to NYC for auditions here and there, and of course performing. It was a fabulous production that got rave reviews, and I got to wear a coin bra and (more or less) bare midriff! Then it was tim efor another race to the airport, fly home, jump off plane and start work moment ... because the day I landed was our first day of Spotlight.

July was consumed with Spotlight on Opera. I was so busy being the boss lady this year, sandwiched between singing gigs, that I did not get to direct an opera (boo-hoo! I love directing!) but we had a fantastic season, producing two full operas (Carmen and Falstaff), two Song Cafes, Aria Extravaganza, and four performances of two completely different opera scenes programs. We also had twice-a-week, extreme ass-kicking boot camp, and I was very happy that my assistant program director Bruce Cain and I --- the two most elderly participants ---- were the only ones who showed up for every single class. Outside. In Texas. In August.

The day after we struck, I was on a very early plane to Chicago, followed by a three hour car trip through Illinois (complete with a stop in the middle to change to a rental car and drive the rest of the way myself), arriving at the first rehearsal of my next gig just in time to sing my aria. A big, flashy aria on four hours' sleep and very little warmup.

In August, I finished performing my second Daughter of the Regiment with the Sugar Creek Festival in Watseka, IL, where I made some fabulous new friends. At last there was a non-rushed trip back to Texas, and I  finally got to spend a few weeks at home.

September 2011 was the first one in six years in which I did not start back to school; in a huge leap of faith, I gave up my teaching job to pursue singing full time. September was also marked by the horrible wildfires that razed so much of Texas; good friends of ours lost their home and I was glued to FaceBook, checking hourly for updates. I also returned to San Antonio Opera for my role debut as Gertrude in Romeo & Juliette, which turned out to be more fun than it had a right to be, thanks to our creative director.

In October, my Spotlight group kicked off their fall season with one of the most fun concerts we've ever done: Aria by Request. Audience members got tickets and got to "buy" the selections they wanted to hear from a menu. I don't usually perform with Spotlight; my role is administrator/director, but this was a fundraiser, so I did, and it was a lot of fun. Then, we loaded up the van and headed off to Louisville, Kentucky, to start rehearsals for The Marriage of Figaro. I adored Kentucky and my castmates!

In November, we finished the Figaro performances and drove home just in time for Thanksgiving. Up to this point, I'd been doing a good job of sticking with my workouts. I ran along the Ohio River, did P90X in the house, and went to the hotel gym to use the elliptical. I even ran on Thanksgiving Day. But then, I was suddenly so exhausted all the time, and used this as an excuse to stop working out for a while.

And that brings us to December 2011. It started off with a really fun performance, my classical cabaret with a tenor friend, Nicholas Simpson. The next week, Spotlight had their scenes program; and in the middle of all this, I did two quickie trips to NYC for auditions, two weeks in a row. Then we were into holiday prep and now here it is, the last day of 2011.

It's been a good year in most ways. I love that I'm getting to sing so much and I pray that even with the economy and the troubles my industry is facing, it continues. As mentioned, I took a big leap of faith and my challenge for 2012 is to keep feeding that faith, and finding paying work to do when I'm not off singing. We had some challenges as a family this year --- who didn't? --- but things are looking better now. And I am beginning 2012 with what may be a frustrating health challenge. I'm not very happy about feeling so lousy going into the new year, but I am also determined to face and conqueor whatever it may be. I continue to be committed to improving my health and fitness. I still want to run a marathon. I still want to do P90X and get into the best shape I possibly can.

Who knows, maybe one day I'll even be able to do a pull-up.

Happy New Year, friends, and here's wishing you the best of luck with your own challenges and goals. Here's wishing us all a healthy dollop of hope, faith, luck, determination, and success in 2012.