I'm brushing my teeth with my left hand, yanking my foot through my jeans with my right, and staring down a strange splotch on the bathroom mirror. It may be pre-schooler spittle, it may be leftover cat vomit: it's nothing a little vinegar and lemon can't combat, right?
I put down the toothbrush and lean to rinse my mouth with water and I notice something besides the disturbing splotch: there are deep grooves in my shoulders, ripples of muscles that have never been there before. I examine for a bit: cool. I dig the groove. The wretched shoulder presses at Crossfit are doing something other than causing mass amounts of pain and ragged laboured panting. Awesome.
I'm distracted by my shoulders and am yanking up my jeans with my other hand and I have to stop for a minute, because they're not coming up easily. I look down and concentrate for a bit, and pull a bit more. And then I stop to consider: I am forcibly coaxing up my jeans. They are tight on my legs. They cling to my butt. These are the loose boyfriend jeans that I bought about a year ago, when I was still fairly out of shape. The ones that used to be roomy on my thighs and baggy on my pancake ass. They are now kind of tight.
Shit.
I know the reason for this, I do, and I understand it's a good reason. I have gained inches on my thighs, muscles from back squats, front squats, tabata squats, lunges. I have gained a butt for the first time since before I became pregnant in 2004. These are positive changes.
But for so long I've absorbed the images and words in magazines and books and movies celebrating tiny, lithe celebrities. Even Jillian Michaels, the anti-waif, has talked about "fitting into those jeans." There's never been any talk that I've seen about any kind of positivity coming out of increased size due to exercise.
When I first started working out with weights, gaining girth on my hips and thighs was one of my biggest worries. I am a tall woman, a smidge over 6'0 with strong features and long limbs. I bordered on Amazonian even when fatskinny; the last thing I wanted was to be tall and large.
I was assured repeatedly by trainers, coaches, my boyfriend: you won't gain muscle mass in your legs, don't worry. It's hard work to gain muscle mass, women's fears about that are unfounded. Don't worry about it.
But it happened. And I am pulling up my jeans in the early morning light and I am worrying about it. And I am a total jackass for doing so.
***
Natalie is a frequent commenter here and in other places I write, and she is always full of insight and encouragement. Last week she linked to an article in the comments section here. It was one of the best articles about women and fitness that I have ever read: Beyond the Body by Louis Hayes.
The article talks about the disservice that the media and fitness world has evoked on women: promoting glossy, airbrushed ideals and undermining the strength that is there and present in all of us.
Hayes writes about the futility of the tiny pink weights made for women, the magazine rack on the mind-numbing treadmills at gyms, the fact that so many of us are taught "girl push ups" in schools, because it's assumed we're not strong enough to do men's. His words are intriguing and maddening and provocative as all hell.
The most interesting part of the article to me was this:
Staff/Crossfit Journal Photo
She is an example of what he calls a "hot Crossfit chick" - a woman who busts her ass to lift more, run harder, compete against her own limits. She's a woman who does man push ups and ignores the pink 5 pound dumb bells in favor of a bar and heavy duty weights and she is rad, right?
I have to admit: when I looked at this picture, I felt 2 things:
1) admiration for her muscles
2) secret, mildly shameful conviction that she is undoubtedly rad, but that I still kind of don't want to look like that. I want to lift stuff, sure, and get stronger, but I don't want bulging muscles. I don't want to look like a dude. Right?
Well, maybe wrong. Maybe she doesn't look like a dude. Maybe she looks like a fit woman. She just doesn't look like the "fit" celebrity we've been sold in the glossy magazines. She is not emaciated, she is not airbrushed, she is not unrealistic. Half of her thigh has not been taken away with photoshop. She is what I should be aspiring toward, rather than the skinny Hollywood celebs. She is what I am working toward wanting. I'm trying to put aside the years of flashing media ideals: fake boobs, thin stomach, whitened teeth, toothpick legs. It's not what's real.
I've taken the picture of Jamie Pressley off my refridgerator. I understand that Angelina Jolie is not an upstanding example of the strong female form. And I'm going to love the snug on my new muscled bum.
***
Completely off topic, I have a hard cover copy of Jillian Michael's Master Your Metabolism cookbook to give away. Leave a comment below and I'll randomly pick someone at the end of the week, then email you to send it out to you. It's got some fantastic recipes and some great info on metabolism. I'd love to know your thoughts on the Beyond the Body Article. A piss off or an eye opener? Would you rather be stronger and muscled or weaker and thin? I'm not going to judge.
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