Posts tagged ‘Fitness’
Lolly Gaga’s Weight Loss Tips
- Go on the two-finger diet – that way, you can have your cake and not eat it, too! (Says Lolly Gag-gag)
- Contract mono, pneumonia, or the bubonic plague.
- Scrape off your taste buds with a straight razor.
- Get hooked on crack, speed, or methamphetamine.
- Chop off a limb or two, but make sure to purchase dismemberment insurance first. The larger the limb, the greater the weight loss.
- Squeeze out massive pus tumor on your back.
- Remove excess organs: appendix, tonsils, one kidney, etc.
I have one query for those who find these tips extreme: How badly do you really want to be skinny?!
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The (Out of) Shape of Things: Part II
Lester Burnham: (running astride fit neighbors) I figured you guys might be able to give me some pointers. I need to shape up. Fast.
Jim Olmeyer: Are you just looking to lose weight, or do you want increased strength and flexibility as well?
Lester: I want to look good naked!
-from American Beauty
When I made the decision to stop “running seriously” three years ago, I realized that I had only been running for one purpose for too long. I asked myself, “If your body were to look the same whether you ran or not, would you still run regularly?” An unequivocal “no” resounded through my disturbed mind. I put my shoes into my closet and laced them up twice a week at most.
I have always conflated my body image into my sexual identity. The unhealthy marriage was consummated in 1995 when I hit puberty. I felt extremely uncomfortable in my own skin. To make a long story short, I made my period go away. The thought of developing breasts and hips absolutely terrified me, so I started exercising and virtually stopped eating. A year later, running saved my life. I felt entitled to eat again, and I gained self-confidence from excelling at something other than schoolwork (“Athlete” sounded better than “bookworm.”).
“Bootylicious” topped the charts the summer before my senior year in high school. Its sexy, charismatic message failed to reach me.
Fast forward two years.
Competing in collegiate sports put me in the best physical shape of my life, but I managed to keep subtle “lady lumps” throughout the years of intense training. Never before had I received so much attention from the opposite sex. I felt at once exhilarated and horrified. After three progressively problematic incidents, I started forcing myself to throw up. My experiences and surroundings seemed to convey to me that my body and my desires had provoked predatory behavior: My burgeoning sexuality could and would be used against me. When my breasts and hips refused to disappear, I tried to “act like a man.” I felt more attracted to women than ever before and feigned apathy toward “catching feelings.” I became aggressive, power hungry, and, occasionally, hateful. None of these pretenses worked, of course, and I started to fear the monster I was becoming.
I quit bulimia cold turkey when I left New Haven. My distance runs became fewer and occurred further between. I gained a nominal amount of weight and an immense amount of self-respect. I now run mostly to feel good. Looking good is just a fringe benefit.
See also “The (Out of) Shape of Things”
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“Jumbo Jessica” and the Marlon Brando Paradox
Jessica Simpson needs to fire her stylist. Ever since the singer donned a pair of high-waisted jeans and double-layered leopard print belt to the KISS Country Chili Cookoff, the tabloids haven’t given her body a break. The New York Post described her as a “corpulent country star” and assigned her the hurtful “Jumbo Jessica” moniker. Us Weekly eagerly repeated the nickname, and People used the same series of unflattering pictures to publicize “her new fat curvy body.”
Days before her humiliating and oh-so-public breakup with Tony Romo, Jessica sang the National Anthem at the AT&T National golf tournament in a horizontally striped Michael Kors dress. The Daily Fix commented, “As the ditzy blonde singer’s career shrinks, her bottom line continues to expand.” Not to be outdone, Perez Hilton blogged, “Is JSimpleson finally pregnant with her dream baby?…That’s an ass you could serve Thanksgiving dinner on!”
Just under 5’3″, Jessica is a petite woman who has been blessed with curves in all the right places. Minor weight fluctuations become exaggerated on her small frame. Case in point: Within the same month, OK! ran stories on Jessica’s wardrobe woes, Romo breakup, and “revenge diet.” She “look[ed] like a blimp” one week and boasted a fit physique the next.
This repulsive practice of inventing weight problems for female celebrities certainly takes its toll on the common (wo)man. I’ve found myself turning down desserts lately and worrying about how I look in form-fitting jeans. It also serves as yet another example of our society’s rampant sexism and double standards: Tom Cruise’s diminutive stature and Jack Nicholson’s gut receive little press/criticism. This is what I call the “Marlon Brando Paradox.”
Marlon Brando is rightfully considered one of the greatest actors of all time. The Academy Award winner’s career spanned over half a century, but his svelte form progressively widened throughout. At almost no point, however, did the media criticize Brando’s weight or deny his talent because he wasn’t as conventionally attractive or as physically fit as he had been as a young man. With performances as “Vito Corleone” in The Godfather and “Paul” in Last Tango in Paris on his impressive résumé, we didn’t need him to look a particular way. But if he had been a woman, he almost certainly would not have landed comparable roles.
The Marlon Brando Paradox perpetuates our society’s commodification and fetishization of the female body. By scrutinizing the female form in this manner, we are preventing progress and gender equality. While Jessica Simpson is the latest victim, almost no one–celebrity or not–escapes being viewed through this perverse, distorted lens: I am anxiously waiting for it to shatter.
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Hostel Environment
written Fall 2005
I hate small talk, but it was the only thing to really do in the Prague youth hostel lounges. Same questions. Different (yet all too similar) people. Same answers. But when someone asked me about my interests at one point, I mentioned running for the team. And defining (or even just describing) myself as a runner suddenly felt like a lie. The “I am ____” statements have always been so loaded and limiting, but I felt all too aware of such limitations that day. After identifying as an athlete and, specifically, as a distance runner for so long, I was rather stunned at how distant I felt from the sport and my team.
And then I looked down at my running shirt and realized it said Y-A-L-E, and I felt like describing myself as a Yale student was, in some respects, an outright falsehood. Sure, we all have that sense of “the assumptions people make about me only because I go to an Ivy League school are so annoying and inaccurate” or “do I even meet up to people’s preconceptions (read: misconceptions) concerning colleges like Yale?” But this was deeper. I felt as though I was lying to myself. Like certain aspects of the past three years have been an absolute prevarication. I have always thought climbing a steep uphill was the only way to reach the “top.” My legs hurt literally and figuratively. Indeed, I have begun to lose my endurance to climb up the ambiguous ladder of success.
For the past few months, I have really thought about whether or not I want to run for the team this year, and that weekend in the Sir Toby’s youth hostel prompted extensive contemplation. The team served as an amazing support network for quite some time, and the shift in dynamics and atmosphere prevents me from fully benefiting from that positive reinforcement. It would be unfair of me to propagate negative energy, and I am definitely taking fond memories and true friendships with me as I “leave” this close-knit community. I have always been known for my honesty, yet I have felt untrue to myself for too long. I am looking forward to eventually reacquainting myself with a sincere love for the sport. For lack of time and, more importantly, a sense of discretion, I will not further expound upon these issues in email format. However, feel free to get in touch with me if you have any questions, exciting news, or even gentle gossip :-). Thank you for sharing a significant portion of my time and passion over the past three years. Good luck with the season and all your future endeavors.
Love Always,
LD
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The (Out of) Shape of Things
For the first time in my life, I have tits.
Don’t get too excited: I’m not filling up shirts with a set of 36Ds, but I think I can safely throw away my training bra. That’s what happens when a person stops working out obsessively. So, unlike the loons on tv, I’m telling all my friends to throw away their running shoes, quit the South Beach Diet, and park it for a while.
We are constantly hearing that obesity is a HUGE problem in America (which I don’t deny), but I think it’s more accurate to identify the discordance between body images and body realities as the bigger epidemic. As a collegiate athlete at a prestigious university, I was once surrounded by a population with a higher risk of eating disorders than the general public: I wasn’t out of place with my obsessive compulsive tendencies or relentless drive toward “perfection.”
A look at my training log would have suggested I was in the best shape of my life when I ran cross country and track in college. I averaged about 60 miles per week, supplemented with pool workouts on Monday and Wednesday mornings and weight training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. During each of the three seasons (cross country in the fall, indoor track in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring), races occurred on Fridays or Saturdays. A lot of endurance coaches use an athlete’s resting heart rate as a barometer for aerobic fitness. The average adult female has a resting heart rate of 75 beats per minute. Mine dipped as low as 44.
The epitome of cardiovascular fitness, I still couldn’t honestly call myself “healthy.” My muscles were constantly sore and my joints achy. I began seeing a psychiatrist for bulimia during my sophomore year, and he required me to take weekly blood tests to make sure my iron and electrolyte levels did not drop too low. I tricked him by chugging Powerade the night before each test and by taking over-the-counter iron pills with my meals. He always seemed confounded that my levels appeared normal, and I found his naïvety discouraging.
One of the events that precipitated my resignation from the team occurred at the end of my junior year. My assistant coach pulled me aside after a track workout and asked me “if [my] bulimia had improved.” Apparently, one of my teammates had told her about my eating disorder. Why she let over a year pass before approaching me about it seems baffling and irresponsible, especially considering her similar past. Her expression of concern came too late, and it reinforced my belief that many members of the running community tacitly accept (even promote) the prevalence of eating disorders among female endurance athletes.
After I quit competing, I slowly weaned myself from pounding the pavement. Now I rarely run more than two days a week, and I am proud to say that that’s OK with me. If I run more than a few miles, the burning sensation in my chest feels unfamiliar and surprisingly delightful. I have come a long way since the time when I ran over 1,000 days in a row or did at least 800 daily sit-ups. It’s taken me months of being low-key to begin to refuel the passion I had when I started running over a decade ago. I’ll train seriously (but not compulsively!!) again when I’m ready, and I think that day is quickly approaching.
I just hope I don’t lose my nice rack.
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The Lollygabber 
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