The Comfort Zone

Isn’t that a laugh.

I went hiking in Telluride a couple of weeks ago and was commenting to my sister on the way down something along the lines of “wow, you can really feel it in your knees on the way down!”

Two weeks later and I have quite literally made a full time job of complaining about my knee. So, today I finally go to the doctor, which I had been avoiding. My feeling was, he is just going to tell me to quit with the whining, quit with the running until it heals up and for god’s sweet sake, lose some fucking weight! And honestly, I just didn’t feel like I really needed that. But I looked up this practice today and they were right down the street and their website said they do “sports medicine” which is what I figured I needed. SO, off I went.

And the guy was awesome. He said he would never tell me to stop running. He gave me a name of a person to get another fill on my band (I have an appointment on Thursday, so god-willing I’ll finally be able to break this fucking plateau I’ve been cruising on for like six months now) and said he could fix my knee!

Turns out I have some kind of irritation of the bursae or some such shit…. something that usually happens to old and fat ladies…. oh wait.

Anyhoodle, he told me that a little old cortisone shot would do the trick. He said it would hurt tonight and tomorrow but by Thursday I would think he was a genius. So, I say “well, should I lay off it until then?” and he goes “you are welcome to do whatever you want” and at the time I just really thought he was my damn hero! Not only did he fix my knee he is NOT telling me what to do!

But now I think he may have had some kind of sarcastic tone, or in his head he was going “hey do whatever you want, hahahha” because OH MY FUCKING GOD! It now hurts WUH-AAAY more than it did before. I read up on the ol’ internets that this is normal. Apparently when you get one of these shots it hurts a lot before it gets better. But there is no fucking WAY I am running on this knee. Not in a million years.

I was reading this editorial by Bernie Sanders and about one third of the way in I was thinking to myself “yeah, we need another Teddy Roosevelt” and then I got to the part where Sanders starts talking about TR.

This is what Teddy Roosevelt, a leading proponent of the estate tax, said in 1910. “The absence of effective state, and, especially, national restraint upon unfair money-getting has tended to create a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men, whose chief object is to hold and increase their power. The prime need is to change the conditions which enable these men to accumulate power which is not for the general welfare that they should hold or exercise.… Therefore, I believe in a…graduated inheritance tax on big fortunes, properly safeguarded against evasion and increasing rapidly in amount with the size of the estate.” And that’s what we’ve had for the last ninety-five years—until 2010.

And keep in mind, TR was a REPUBLICAN (and my favorite president, I might add). What do you suppose he would say about the Republican party today?

While walking around our cul-de-sac today doing my cool-down, one of our neighbors, a guy in a fancyish suit, was walking out to his car. I waved and he clearly did NOT wave back. Now, it is possible that he said something and I did not hear him because I was still wearing my headphones, but you would think that if you saw someone wearing headphones and that person waved, you would go ahead and wave back, right? Knowing that person wouldn’t hear you? It also could be that he just didn’t want to wave to someone who was all sweaty and fat and wearing tight pants and a tank top. That sort of thing just doesn’t belong in this cul-de-sac if you know what I am saying. It could also be that some of the neighbors spied me walking about the perimeter of my house wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, tank top and no bra, while sprinkling salt all around the house while finishing up my house cleansing ritual last weekend. I suppose they may have found that rather odd, and I know for a fact that the two teenagers next door saw, so who knows who else took note.

I think it is more likely that he didn’t wave because of the simple fact that if I was someone who paid over 300K for his house and some family moved on in to my same cul-de-sac who paid probably 100K less than that, I wouldn’t wave to those people either. I would be bitter and hateful towards those people even though it was clearly not those people’s fault. Especially when those people wander around in tank tops sprinkling salt everywhere.

I went hunting for some running blogs this morning since my sisters aren’t posting nearly enough on our exercise blog to suit me. And this made me cry.

Favorite running memory, run or race?
This answer is a bit long, but funny. It is from my blog:

I left the house at 5:50 a.m. for a short jog before the kids woke up. I hadn’t gone more than a quarter kilometer when I saw a group of Djiboutian girls jogging toward me. We smiled and waved at one another, I was too shocked to say anything, and I passed them.

I have seen French men wearing too-short shorts, naked men, dead men, barking dogs, dead dogs, dead cats, dead crows, dead snakes, car accidents, dancing women, American soldiers showering homeless children with bags of peanut M and M’s, sky divers, fluorescent purple sunsets, body parts, toilet seat covers, condoms, fist fights, men urinating, men taking a dump, men taking a shower, men holding hands, men praying, six people on a bicycle, six people on a motorcycle…but I have never seen twenty-five obese Djiboutian girls jogging. I’ve never seen more than two at a time other than at the track.

I continued running straight ahead, then suddenly, without a second thought, turned around and sprinted to catch up with the group.

“Can I run with you?” I asked in Somali.

“Oui,” they answered in unison French, grinning.

“There aren’t many women who run, especially in this neighborhood,” I said, again in Somali.

They began asking me questions in French and I answered in Somali. They were out of breath but the pace was slow (about thirteen minutes miles).

We passed my house and I said, “Waa tan, xafadayda.” This is my house.”

“Allah!” the girl next to me cried. “You speak Somali!”

It only took them eight minutes to realize it.

From that moment on, I was a part of the group. They gave me a spot in the front, center, with three of the largest girls on either side. Their coach, Abdi, jogged on the outside. He motivated the stragglers and made sure cars and buses didn’t swerve too close to his team.

We ran about ten more minutes when I caught the blurred picture out of the corner of my eye of a sheep running at my side.

“How did a sheep get in here with us?” I asked.

“She’s ours,” Fadouma answered.

“You’re joking.”

“No. This is Gilane and that is Lulla. They run with us every morning.”

“Don’t they get tired?”

“Oh no, we are so fat and slow they keep up just fine.”

The two sheep ran at my side. I had never dodged sheep legs and flouncing, fat sheep butts before on a run. I lay one hand on Gilane’s back and laughed out loud.

I was a surprise vision for the entire neighborhood. Most people were used to seeing me run alone by now but they had never seen a group of twenty-five Djiboutian girls and a white woman running down the street with two sheep.

Men hung out of bus windows and cars pulled up next to us to stop and stare. Truckers swerved and coach Abdi yelled at them to back off. They yelled back that they wanted to watch the spectacle.

I was also a surprise vision to the team itself – a married women with three children who was strong enough to not even be breathing heavily. As we talked, they were so engaged in our conversations coach Abdi tripped over a stone on the sidewalk and almost face-planted in the dirt. Five minutes later Fadouma did an actual face-plant on the sidewalk while talking with me about life in Somaliland. The rest of the team had to stop and take a laugh break while she brushed herself off, chattering the entire time.

Most of the girls were seriously overweight, which their thinner friends pointed out with great joy and acceptance.

“Look! Look how fat Fadouma is. But she can run!”

“We run slow so the fat girls can keep up.”

“The fat girls run in front so we don’t pass them.”

“You aren’t fat. I’m not too fat. She is really, really fat. See how she bounces?”

The heavier girls smiled and waved and laughed, there was no shame in their body sizes. They all knew they were beautiful. They all knew they were stronger than almost every other female in Djibouti because they were awake at 5:50 a.m. running in the street with courage and happiness.

And sheep.

I ran 6.2 miles yesterday so I am taking an off day. I hiked five miles in Telluride with my sister on Thursday and my knees are still a bit sore from the downhill walk.

Anyhoodle, in other news, I was just watching Morning Joe and heard Mika Whatshername exclaim in a tone typically reserved for child molesters and rapists how disgusted she was with a picture of a dude getting ready to eat a three pound burger. She then stated that one third of Americans was overweight and another 1/3 was “MORBIDLY OBESE”. I do hear what she is saying, I mean, I know that is what I see when I walk down the street, 66% of Americans being disgustingly fat. So, okay, we’ll overlook the absurdity of her statistics. But she then started blathering about how awful all the fat is and stated, and I quote, “they are sick, as if they have cancer.”

Now, being an obese gal myself (BMI 33), I was rather amused to find out that I am so sick that I might as well have fucking CANCER! Especially considering the above information about the hiking and the running. But hey, what the fuck do I know, right? If Mika says I am sick, then by jaysus I must be sick!

Anyways, I thought I would share some pics of our recent vacation to Rushmore. You can see how deathly ill I appear to be. Jesus christ on a buttered biscuit, I’m surprised I was able to even GO on vacation, much less walk around a national monument!

This is me giving some love to GWB at this rather creepy place on the road which had many of these statues. I think it was called “President’s Park” or something like that.

And this is, in my humble opinion, the funniest picture I have ever taken. It was taken at this ridiculous tourist trap called the “Wall Drug” store in South Dakota. Apparently the claim to fame is that they are the biggest and oldest drug store and they give away free water, which during the depression was somewhat of a big deal. I bought some ultra-cute flip-flops there, and took this awesome picture.

About two years ago, more or less, I started up again with the regular exercise thing. And I did thirty minutes three times a week and had quite a breakthrough when told by a doctor NOT to exercise for three weeks, whereupon I dove headlong into the bitchiest most irritable place my poor husband had ever seen me in save for the months after DW was born. SO, I had the buy-in. Exercise a minimum of half an hour three times a week = a happier person. So, I figured whatever, it is cheaper than Prozac, right? Right.

Well, so then I got into really long distance walking, longer workouts on the bike (15 and 20 miles with some pretty good resistance), did a half marathon and then started running.

And now I have noticed something odd. Every day that I don’t exercise is now a bitchy, irritable or sad/depressed day for me. Every. Single. Time.

So, three times a week is no longer enough. Then four times a week was no longer enough. And now I am thinking I am probably going to have to hit the gym every day just to get what I need and not bite the heads off of those I love. Or even those I just tolerate, like at work, since biting their heads off isn’t generally considered well advised either.

I feel like I am addicted to crack or something, and I don’t see how this can possibly be all that healthy, even though I am sure everyone is getting ready to say “but that’s GREAT!”*

I am quite literally scared to death of getting some kind of injury or sickness that will keep me from exercising, since I’m not quite sure what quitting suddenly would do to me at this point. But I’m certain it would not be pretty.

Furthermore, I become more and more convinced that it is ruining my sex life. Since who needs sex WHEN YOU HAVE ENDORPHINS!?!?!?

Is any of this normal?

*FYI, the first fucking person who asks me if I am losing more weight now that I am exercising will be publicly excoriated. The answer is NO MOTHERFUCKING GODDAMMIT I HAVE IN FACT GAINED FIVE POUNDS BECAUSE HERE’S THE GODDAMN NEWS FLASH, EXERCISE DOES NOT EQUAL WEIGHT LOSS NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU HAVE HEARD DOCTOR PHIL OR ANY OTHER DUMBSHIT MAN WHO GETS PAID TO TELL WOMEN WHAT TO DO SAY IT! IT DOESN’T MAKE IT TRUE!*

*Unless, of course, you are on one of Jillian’s death camp shows, where you are forced to exercise all day long while subsisting on vegetables. Then, I will grant you, you might lose a few pounds. Temporarily.

Via this post over at iblamethepatriarchy (in which, by the way, I actually commented, which I never do, because the person, not Twisty, the person she is posting a letter from, was actually asking for advice and opinions and she then went on to tell me that she “really disliked the tone of my post”… I didn’t respond because my only response would have been “whatever”, but I must say this is exactly why I don’t ever comment on blog posts, people ask for opinions and then accuse you of having a “tone” when you dole them out, but whatever), I found this website that another commenter linked to (her tone was okay, I guess, since she didn’t get a smack down) and kept me laughing all morning. This one, in particular, had me laughing until I was crying, for some reason “stainedstained” was what did it, I am laughing again now even typing it. And calling it a “god box”…. Jesus on amber waves of grain, that’s funny. Almost funny enough for me to want one.

ETA: I feel the need to point out that I am really not making fun of anyone who would use a god-box…. it is the same basic concept as a “wish jar” or any number of other things like that and I myself utilize a similar tool with my “thankfulness basket” that we do every year, and then we burn what we have written down in a fire, so it is a perfectly useful spiritual exercise and certainly can be helpful. I just think calling it a “god box” is funny.

As bad as my job sometimes is, at least I don’t work for BP.

It’s good I am taking some time off soon. Just a four day weekend, but still, it should be enough. I’m so sick of my job I could puke every day, every day. The whiners, the complainers, the people in their mid-fifties who act like two-year-olds. The team lead that I myself promoted going on about something not being “fair” and having to nearly physically restrain myself from asking him if he believed it was in his employment contract that things be “fair” (thinking about that now, I probably should have gone ahead and said it). The constant emails from people who think they are important attempting to run my department and tell me how to handle my employees, the constant fucking conference calls where I must sit and listen to what a poor job we are all doing and not say anything.

And you want to hear the most annoying thing? There are four of us on the “leadership” team, myself, one other supervisor, a trainer and my boss. And all three of the others besides me are constantly going on about how fucking TIRED they are. My boss is single and has zero kids. The trainer is probably twenty five years old, is single and has zero kids. The other supervisor is single with four kids, two still at home. So, she is the only one, in my humble opinion, who has any right to be tired. I appear to be the most well rested of any of them and I have two young kids. And the whole thing is, fucking stop complaining about it! Nobody wants to fucking hear it! Okay, well maybe not nobody, but not me! I don’t want to hear about your fucking headache or about how stressed you are and how that is keeping you from sleeping, or how your cat kept you up all night, or blah blah blah blah. Just shut the fuck up!

Probably I need to quit. But we’ll see if I feel better after a couple of days off. I probably will.

Of my firm stance that if Twisty every stops writing I will be giving up the intertubes forever and ever.

What all chads fail to grasp is that, as members of an oppressed class, we have always considered it a matter of survival and our No. 1 priority to grok the fullness of the oppressor. In fact, we’ve been grokking the oppressor’s fullness since the cradle, mostly without even realizing it. It hasn’t been too difficult, since we were all raised in the smelly nutsack of Dude Nation, and continue to be engulfed by and to marinate in dudelionormative swampwater all day, every day. If there is ever some little dudecentric point here or there that eludes us, not to worry; dudelionormative socialization protocols are in place to take us back to school and whip us into shape.

The result?

There is nothing about men that Savage Death Islanders don’t know. Nothing. We know all about your dicks and your glands and what gets you off and how you were socialized and the terrible strain of male privilege. We get all your dude-jokes. We know all your antifeminist arguments. We know all your porn-is-necessary justifications. We know how you behave when you perceive that someone of a lower caste has challenged your authori-tay. No need to explain to us that we are doing feminism wrong, because we’ve already heard it from the 495,312 dudes who thought of it before you were born. We know that you are not conscious of your own privilege. And we get that, because your invisible privilege derives from the oppression of women, you hate women.

Last week, in the context of an entirely unrelated set of circumstances, my father referred to me as an “athlete.” At the time, I snickered and pointed it out to Chris, like “look, my dad just called me an athlete, how amusing” and didn’t think much more of it.

Today, I did four miles, which is what is on my training calendar for this damn half marathon I am training for. In the rain. And sometime around mile three, when both the dog and myself were soaked and he was starting to lag behind (that dog is definitely not in as good a shape as I am), it occurred to me that this is, in fact, what athletes do. I remembered my brother going running after missing his wrestling practice, even though the reason he was missing it was because he had stayed home from school altogether since he was SICK. I thought of my sisters, running it out through injuries. And I thought about me…. because this morning I knew it was raining, but there was no way any stupid rain was going to keep me from completing this damn run, the consequences to my ego and self esteem would simply be too high, and I thought “athlete….. I suppose it’s a possibility.”

I have used the ellipsis multiple times with reckless and irresponsible disregard.

Seriously, you must go and read this post over at Fatshionista. I am going to quote liberally from this post, since I know many of you don’t click on my links and it is THAT important that you read this.

It’s not simply Michaels’ fat-hatin’ that bugs me, nor is it her penchant for yelling. My problem is that her methods of engaging and motivating her clients is frighteningly close to a relationship which in any other context we would call abusive. Working off the two clips above exclusively — two clips I chose pretty much at random from a multitude of possibilities — I can make this case. For one, Michaels dehumanizes the fat people she works with (”They’re not like normal people”, “half-dead”). She seems to think the brains of fat people have been compromised such that they can only respond to repetitive screaming, not unlike wayward cattle. She makes threats, not just to their physical safety, but to their very lives (”The only way you’re coming off this damn treadmill is if you die on it”). Her abuse is calculated to break her clients down until they weep, and even then she doesn’t let up. She is unpredictable, with a vicious and quick temper, and is apathetic toward (if not gratified by) her clients’ discomfort, be it physical or emotional. There’s even elements of codependency in there, as it’s only when the fat people in question behave as instructed that her mood might change and they may receive some encouragement or support, which is only meted out in doses small enough to keep them craving more. And before any of this happens, the people she trains must first be convinced that they cannot possibly survive without her, that their lives prior to this introduction were worthless, their bodies but hollow shells — or, in this case, shells filled with soulless fat.

Oh, I am aware that people who hire her do so of their own free will; indeed, most abusive relationships begin that way. But let me be clear: if a fat person wants you to scream at, humiliate, or otherwise demean them, that itself is a problem.* It is a problem because it illuminates the fact that so many fat people believe they deserve humiliation and disrespect, and also believe that these things are their only means of finding health and happiness. That their immorality has to be beaten out of them, emotionally or otherwise. That their evil has to be exorcised. That they and their bodies are not entitled to care and dignity but only to punishment and pain.

Self-respect and self-esteem are not things that are delivered automatically along with a new, slimmer body. How you do or do not value yourself is something that you will carry throughout the bodily changes that will inevitably take place in your lifetime. If you love yourself unconditionally — as you should, even if no one else does — then fatter or thinner, you are at home in your body, and you neither want nor need abusive outsiders to instruct you on how to survive. This model of weight-loss-by-abuse is irresponsible, designed to produce good television more than to encourage healthier lifestyles. Our hatred of fat bodies is enabled and reinforced; if Michaels, who claims to do this because she cares, is allowed to berate fat people under the auspices of doing them a favor, then certainly I am free to openly mock the next fat woman I see. Even if she’s with her family. Even if she seems to be having a good time. How dare she. The popularity of Jillian Michaels, in spite of (or because of) her abhorrent behavior, illustrates that we as a culture are continually and passively consuming media that underscores the idea that fat people are asking to be malevolently attacked simply for daring to exist.

This post, in a nutshell and expressed far better than I could ever hope to, explains why, if you are a Jillian lover, you had best not mention that fact to me, as I cannot guarantee that it won’t be the last conversation we ever have. I hold people who consume her shit, and other shit like it, to be partially responsible for the next fucking water balloon that gets thrown at me.