It's time again.
*
This happened during the worst PMS I've had in years. It was like a monster had moved into my gut and was sitting around watching LA Law, eating everything I swallowed and screaming for a fight in between bites. I couldn't get enough food. I couldn't choke down a Dixie cup of water. I sloshed when I walked, literally. And I couldn't get my jeans on.
Finally, I let go. The period happened, and I went back to Weight Watchers expecting the worst. But I was only two pounds over goal, eleven pounds over my personal goal. Totally doable, I decided. I left triumphant and had a kickass week. Trained almost every day. Tracked all my food like a good little Weight Watcher. All week I practiced a speech in my head I was sure they'd ask me to give once they discovered I'd taken the entire eleven pounds off in one week. "Gosh, you know," I'd say softly, shrugging, "I'm a little different than most of you. I'm an athlete. A kickboxer, actually." Pausing, I'd let the audience ooh and ahh while I cocked out my right knee - I'd be wearing a miniskirt to show off the lean muscle in my toned legs - and then say, "Obviously not a very good one, though, see?" A little self-deprecating humor; my right knee and shin are littered with spreading purple bruises.
From there I'd go on to flippantly say something like, "Well, I'm 'Lifetime' so I've done this all before, and I know what works for me. First of all, I drank lots of water - Crystal Light works beautifully - and I have Lean Cuisines for lunch. I track every single bite and if I want a little dessert, I make sure to get my activity points in so I can indulge in one of those Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches. Say, did you hear they have cookies and cream now? Oh, and don't forget those zero point Progresso soups."
I went to the meeting yesterday and remembered why the Lifetimers do not give speeches, do not get bookmarks and keychains and bravos. Because we are a bitter bunch, and our speeches would most likely be, "I miss cupcakes. I miss them so fucking much. Yeah, sure, you can have anything, but if you decide on that cupcake, you give up lunch and dinner. Seriously, fuck my life." We're supposed to be there in our workout capris and streaked hair, giving hope and uplifting stories to the new kids, but really we're sitting in the back, feeding off fresh blood like lonely old vampires, rolling our eyes when they say, "At parties, I keep all of my little toothpicks so I know how many h'ors d'oeuvres I had, so I can track them!"
"One point eight?" I yelled to the lady behind the counter. "That's it?"
"It's so good that you came back before it got out of hand," she said, her voice practiced and calm, soothing. "This is nothing. It's going to come right off. You'll be free next week."
*
It doesn't help that my kickboxing classes are such ego dumps. I never look forward to class. I downright dread it in the car on the way and by the time I'm there, holding my gloves and watching the jiu jitsu class finishing up, I'm sick. I'm the only female in the class, and I make the boys uncomfortable. They do not want to partner with me, so I get the leftovers. The frightened looking sixteen year old, 5'4 with the reach of a man a foot taller. The huge, overweight guy who slams punches into my face until I see stars. Jogging or jumproping in the beginning, I feel my ass and thighs jiggling and I know they're watching, disgusted. Celeste puts my hair into beautiful braids that keep my hair from flying all over the place, but I know they make me look a bit butch, and my wide shoulders don't help that either. The instructors generally avoid me, sometimes stepping in with a helpful hint, but most of the time I'm left with the oldest lesson in the book: "If it hurts when you do that, don't do that." I go into class with a couple of things I want to fix: turning my hip over on kicks, keeping my elbows tight so I won't eat uppercuts, for example. If I manage to fix those things, and I don't come out injured, I feel like it was a good class. Of course, then I got nailed with rapidfire punches that seemed to leave no holes, so I tell myself next time I'm going to circle off, and snap my front kicks back.
And maybe that's why I still go. It certainly isn't because I'm a badass. I don't even think I want to fight. When I'm feeling very honest, I know I just want to be respected. I don't get it in that class. There's little more ego draining than being punched in the face. But when Mr. Aran's cousins came over I pulled up my pant leg, casually, showed them my spattering of bruises. "It's nothing," I said while they flipped out.
posted by Samus @ 5:27 PM
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