Genesis of a Reclamation

A trainer whose workouts I occasionally do sent out a questionnaire a while back, claiming it would help me tap into the deepest, truest reasons I was working out and striving to get stronger. It was only seven questions, so why not?

The catch? All seven questions were the same question.

Turns out, she was right. By question three, I tapped into something buried deep inside me, and the emotional sludge freed that day is still pouring out, a year later. (And apparently I only needed six questions to unleash the beast.)

Anyway. Here's where it all started:

1. Why do I want to get stronger?

Because I just turned 40, and I don’t want to gain weight or kill my metabolism.

2. Why do I want to get stronger?

So I’ll look better and feel better about myself.

3. Why do I want to get stronger?

Because I’m pissed off dammitt. I wasn’t on the verge of death. It’s not a “bad mommy” disease. It’s not a fucking disease. I was far more unhealthy at 180 pounds than I was at 105, or even 95, but no one freaked out and made me go to therapy.

I’m pissed. fucking. off. Labels aren’t healthy. To say I was in the same category as those hollow-eyed, 70-pound creatures who wouldn’t even look at a can of Ensure is just insane. And insulting.

I want to take my body back. I want to take my life and my looks back. I don’t want to do what other people think I should or shouldn’t do. I want to take back control of my body. And my food. All these years later, I’ve been letting that fucking label – anorexic – have control over my fitness (or complete and utter lack thereof). I’ve been letting the people who put that label on me still have control over my shape and my weight. No more. I’m back in control, bitches.

And god I fucking hate it when they feel the need to tell me how good I look. I know how fucking good I look. And it has nothing to do with them. It only has to do with me.

And you know what? A lot of people, including myself, thought I looked good back then too. And I did. Yes, I was thin, but I looked gorgeous. There. I said it. And it’s fucking true.

In truth, I don’t want to be as thin as I was then. I was underweight, I like having curves, and I did have some of the more minor symptoms of anorexia. But fuck that label. I am casting it off. It didn’t quite fit me then, and it sure as shit doesn’t fit me now. I don’t even want to say “I was anorexic.” I’m purging (pun definitely intended!!) that label from my life – permanently.

I find it so ironic that I did so many far more unhealthy things than under-eat, but that’s the one thing I got stuck in the medical slammer (and labeled) for. I smoked, I ate a terrible diet, my weight crept up and up. I never got any exercise.

I truly believe that if I hadn’t been slapped with that label, I wouldn’t have developed most of the other bad habits I fell into. I’m not blaming others, I know Mom was truly worried and trying to help. I’m blaming that blasted label. And oh boy did I embrace it.

Well, no more. I’m officially kicking that label out of my life. Maybe it’ll take a few others with it.

4. Why do I want to get stronger?

Because I want to totally fucking rock a bikini in my 40s. Because I don’t want “old lady arms,” or middle-age spread. I don’t want to get to my 50s and have a fitness and metabolic hole to crawl out of. I want to head it off, to get – and stay – fit, now. Because it’s the smart thing to do for my health and my future.

5. Why do I want to get stronger?

So I can continue to love my body more every day.

In truth, the years I spent hating my body were few. During college, when I was overweight, yes, I cringed what I saw in the mirror, the few times I dared to look. But during junior high and high school, and in the years since I shed the college weight (at varying degrees of physical fitness), I have actually liked my body, most of the time. Today, I love my body, and what it looks like, and what it’s capable of.

Who was that girl, back in the late ‘90s? I barely remember her. It’s like looking through haze. I don’t feel shame or embarrassment anymore. That girl was struggling. She was real. She was fun. She did the best she could with a body she hated, and didn’t know what to do with, or how to dress. She made excuses, because she didn’t know what to do. She had never been the master of her own body.

Back when she had liked her body, she was told she was wrong – first for the emerging curves that were deemed to “send the wrong message” if not properly hidden, and then for being too thin. It felt like what she liked didn’t matter. Her body was governed by others. Do this. Don’t do that. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Don’t show too much. Be thin, but not too thin. Lose weight. But not too much.

Between the opinions of her family and societal pressures, she felt that her body was always wrong, even when she liked it.

She is part of me. Even if I didn’t know her very well. And she’s pissed off.

My curves didn’t send the wrong message, damn it. God that pisses me off to this day. It was my fucking body, not a carrier pigeon. “You need to think about what message you’re sending.” “Margaret has no ass at’all.” Therefore it was okay for her to wear the same dress. But it wasn’t okay for me. It was my body that was the problem, my body that was sending some mysterious and dangerous message, not the dress. It was my body that was wrong.

So I changed it.

And it was still wrong.

Then I spiraled out of control and my body changed again. “You’ve obviously gained a lot of weight since Spring Break.” Fuck you.

My body was still wrong. Only this time, I agreed.

Someone was always telling me my body was wrong. What I thought about it didn’t seem to matter.

But now, I know that’s all bullshit. My body is not wrong. Liking my body is not wrong. There is no wrong way to have a body.

6. Why do I want to get stronger?

So I can get rid of all excuses. So I can remove the word “can’t” from my vocabulary. If I wanted to run a marathon, I could. I just don’t particularly want to. But I can run around the block. And I can lift heavier and heavier dumbbells as I get stronger.

“I only run if something’s chasing me.” If I had a nickel for every time I’ve said those words, well, I’d have at least a couple bucks. It wasn’t that I hated running, or couldn’t run. The truth is, I was scared to try. It was an excuse not to get healthy. Or rather, an excuse for the fact that I wasn’t healthy. A funny one-liner to divert attention away from the fact that I was dreadfully out of shape and overweight.

I didn’t have a similar saying about weight training, or high-intensity cardio, but I certainly had the same mindset. And now I’ve worked my way up from 5-lb dumbbells to 12-lb dumbbells, and now 15s. It’s awesome. Because I can do it. And I got up yesterday morning and did 20 minutes of plyo cardio. Lunge jumps, people!

And I can run. This week, I ran, without stopping, the loop on my regular 25-minute walk route. I don’t know how far that is, but I don’t care either. The point is, I started running for a portion of my walks as I felt myself getting into better and better cardiovascular shape. So, I set a goal of running the entire loop, and then I did it. And it wasn’t even that hard. Turns out, sometimes I do run if nothing’s chasing me!

I hated being overweight. I hated being out of shape, and not looking and feeling my best. And I was embarrassed that I’d gotten to that point, at 175 or 180 pounds, give or take a few (I never weighed myself, due to equal portions of fear, shame and denial). And so, I made excuses, most of them only to myself. “My boobs are too big to run.” “Running is hard on the joints.” “Only if something’s chasing me.”

Internally, I thought I couldn’t do it. I was embarrassed, and didn’t know where to start. So I didn’t even try.

No. More. I can work hard and look awesome and eat what I fucking want without anyone’s permission or approval. Only mine. And if I think a lot about my health and my food, well, so fucking what? This is the only body I get in life.