Saturday, March 17, 2012

Blisters, Objectification, and Biceps

I had a really tough work out last wednesday. 
I was sweating like an un-kosher pig. 
And I was freaking sore.
I dunno what it was. I did the same exact exercises, strength trainings, and cardio that I usually do. 
I was so sore the next day, that I decided to not do any sort of exercising. 
Becky’s body needed a rest. 
But then, on Friday, I was still sore. 
Walking down the stairs had me verbally proclaiming my soreness with each step. 
Well, I didn’t want to exert myself too much...but I still needed to do some sort of exercise. I came up with a compromise. 
I decided that I would walk the mile and a half to Wal-Mart to buy shoes for the job I’m starting on Monday. 
This was going to be great. 
The weather was beautiful. 
The sun was shining. 
I was wearing a tank top in the ridiculous hopes of getting some sort of tan. 
But, I made a fatal error. (I suppose that’s being a bit dramatic. But that’s how I roll.)
I wore flip flops. 
And they hurt like HELL!
I now have beautiful blisters all over the soles of my feet. 
Every step makes me wince in pain. 
To top it off, on my walk there, I was objectified at least four times by nasty men driving by. 
Maybe it was my childbearing hips. 
Maybe it was my bare shoulders. 
Maybe it was because I was a single woman walking along the road. 
But I was PISSED. 
It got me thinking about the idea of Rape Culture
This idea where if a woman is raped, someone in the court may ask, “Well, what was she wearing?” Was she was asking for it?
BUT, there are people smarter than me who know how to discuss the subject better than anything I could muse about. 
So, I’ll just stop. 
Way to bring down the mood, Becky. 
Needless to say, I don’t think I will be walking along for a while down that way. 
So, what I was hoping to be a rather wonderful experience, ended up being a rather unpleasant experience. 
In lighter news, 
I have developed biceps now....
I like to watch my arm muscles “pump up” when I flex. And I touch the muscles. And I’m all like, “dang, is this my body?” 
If only my leg muscles will cooperate and look as awesome as my arms. 

Thursday, March 8, 2012

“There’s a guy that looks like that at our school?!”

I went out for a jog outside today instead of going to the gym that I joined. It’s an absolutely beautiful day in Wisconsin. The snow has melted! Although I’m not sure how long it’ll last... *sad face*
I was reminded how much I hate to have anybody see my jog. 
A car passed me on the secluded little country road that I live on.
And that’s when I remembered. 
It was 9th grade. My first year of high school. There were two rival middle schools in our County, but in the end, we had to put away away our friendly hatred of each other to attend the same high school. 
But it was okay. 
Because we were very mature 14-year-olds. 
Ninth grade meant new friends. And new boys.
“There’s a guy that looks like that at our school?!” My friend Bertina pointed out a tall, blonde football type guy from our bus.
I’d seen him before. He was from the other middle school. 
And he was hot. 
But there was something about the way she noticed him that always stuck with me. 
“A guy that looks like that!”
There’s a certain sense of pride and awe in her observation of him, And of course attraction in that sentence. 
I remember in that moment wanting somebody to say the say the same thing about me. 
Which was impossible because I looked like this:

I'm the one on the right. 

And I realized that I still subconsciously wanted somebody to say that about me. 
“We have somebody that looks like that at our work?”
“We have somebody that looks like that shopping in our store?”
“We have somebody that looks like that (insert a ridiculous scenario)?”
But, due to my predisposed genes, the likelihood of that happening are slim. No, this isn’t a “I hate myself and need people to make me feel better” post. Far from it. Even when I lose the 50 pounds (hopefully this year), I probably won’t be the female equivalent of that guy from my freshman year of high school. 
(I just Facebook stalked him and he doesn’t look as cute as I remember....)
Among other learning experience, my five years in college were a time were I realized that I wasn’t drop dead gorgeous. What a crazy day that realization was! Just kidding. There wasn’t one event. On a good day, I’m cute and funny. And that’s fine. I don’t think God makes all of us to be incredibly attractive. 
So, to you men and women who are incredibly attractive all day everyday, use it for good. Not evil. 
But me, when I do my cardio, in those moments where my breathing is labored and I just want to quit exercising, I’m going to pretend it’s not all in vain, and that a girl that looks like that is exercising.
This post has no great moral lesson. 
I’m sorry. 

Confessions of a Meathead.

About a month ago I met with a trainer at the Princeton Club.
I told him my weight-loss goals. 
I want to lose 50 pounds. 
He showed me strength training exercises to do. 
He recommended cardio machines and techniques.
He showed me how to stretch.
He advised me to work out an hour and a half per visit. 
At this point in my life, I had a job. 
So I told him I could work out 4 times a week.
He was nice.
So, I’ve been working out for month.
I was hoping to pick up jogging again. It was something I really enjoyed from the summer. And something I could measure my progress by. 
The Princeton club does have a track. It’s a little track that circles all the workout machines and equipment. Ten loops is a mile. 
I have learned that I prefer to jog outside. Inside the gym is artificial and stale. I spend most of my time trying to memorize what lap I’m on. When I jog inside, I can stop at any time. But when I’m jogging outside, I have to get back home. I can’t stop whenever. I still have to walk back wherever I am. It forces me to focus and just jog. 
I may have mentioned in a previous post, but before joining the gym, I hadn’t exercised in MONTHS! It’s too darn cold and icy outside! 
When I tried to jog a mile. I couldn’t do it. 
It took me about a week of continual jogging around that tiny track to finally be able to do it. 
Now that I’m unemployed, I work out everyday. Two hours a day. 
Yeah. Two hours. I feel like a meathead. 
Where’s my protein shake?