Panic! I have not gone without any exercise for three days in I don't know how long. I have become convinced that my mental health depends on it. I can take a day off here an there (no, not every week, but maybe every two or three weeks), and I do easy days (yes, I mean easy: a leisurely 45 minute swim, or a long hike or a unhurried bike ride) every week. But I don't regularly take days off.
Why not? Because when I do I feel crappy. By the end of the day I am sluggish, often depressed, and yet somehow restless. It is not a good thing.
I really believe that my body has become addicted to the endorphins that come with vigorous exertion, the so-called "runner's high." But I am also willing to admit that maybe this inability to avoid exercise is a remnant of a distorted body image, the fear of fat inculcated by a lifetime of paternal commentary on women's bodies, maternal monitoring of food intake, and general cultural parading of emaciated female physiques as ideals of attractive womanhood.
Gender studies or not, I am not immune to it. Shelf-loads of books on "the beauty myth" and body dysmorphia will not outweigh the guilt of not maintaining the leanest appearance I can manage. I might try to convince myself I am doing it for health, or for athletic achievement, but deep down I know that all this striving for control of the shape of our bodies is irreversibly tinged with self-loathing.
By "we" I mean all the women like me who work out to be better athletes, who regularly train to compete, who avow not to be prey to the frivolity of skinny thighs. But to some extent, almost none of us can escape the gaze of a culture that cultivates the most corrosive contempt for those whose exceeds the prescribed confines of the feminine form. We contrive the most subtle forms of surveillance to monitor our bodies and those of the women to whom we compare ourselves.
Even some of the women runners and triathletes whom I most admire do not escape this fixation. It seeps out of their blogs in the forms of humorous asides, such as the cheeky question of whether one would rather gain 60 pounds or put one's hand in a blender and press on (guess which option was chosen). Or it peeks out of genuine compliments of other women's flat abdominal landscapes, and evident lack of body fat.
I am not pointing fingers. God knows I am as vulnerable as anyone to the shame of the muffin top. I want to believe that, like Elizabeth Gilbert during her Italian escapade, I could just revel in the pleasures of Roman cuisine and just find larger pants when I need them. But could I?? Honestly, I doubt it. I would eat, no doubt. I am not one to forgo my gelato. But you can be sure I would not let the sun set without going for a run.
Wow. That was an amazingly honest post.
ReplyDeleteI think you pretty much hit the nail on the head. At least in my case it is a balancing act that leaves me trying to make sure I don't leave too far in any direction.