okay…here’s the punchline for the past three posts.

these are the goals of fitness: strength, endurance, ability to save oneself and maybe even someone else, jumping, climbing…basically moving the way that our bodies were meant to move, etc.  milk doesn’t do a body nearly as good as movement does.  true story.  (for someone like me, milk does a body harm actually, but movement makes my body hummmmmmmm with pleasure.)

but, WITHOUT FAIL, when i talk to women about their fitness goals, this is what i get:

“i want to lose 15lbs.”

” i want to lose 3 inches on my thighs.”

“i want to fit into my prom dress….from 20 years ago.”

“i want to be a size 0.”

“i want a really flat belly.”

“i want a smaller butt.”


do you see the irrationality in this?  i know that this seems to be a point that i’m beating to death, but it needs to be understood.  i realize that i am painting with a broad brush, but men tend to see their bodies as functional, as useful, as something that they can train to be stronger, faster, more powerful and women, we’ve been acculturated to view our bodies as ORNAMENTS.  our bodies are decorative.  not that we shouldn’t decorate our bodies (which i think is fun) but the body itself is a seasonal prop.  “boobs are in this season.” “let’s hear it for round butts this winter!” “the waif look is in this summer.”

we have been so brainwashed into believing, really and truly believing, that our worth is determined by the appearance of our bodies (we’ll get into the anthropological, cultural link later in this blog) that we will give up our fitness, our health, often our lives in this pursuit of a societally determined bodily appearance.

a lot of people really grasp this intellectually.  i’m one of them.  i can argue about how horribly wrong this is.  i can even write about it with some intelligence (hopefully) but i can be walking along having the grandest day, catch a glimpse of my body in a glass front somewhere and if short and round isn’t in this season (hint: it never is.), then my day is dashed.

my best friend and i were laughing about this phenomenon of believing something we know to be untrue.  she’s a psychologist.

her: “you know, there has to be a psychological diagnosis for believing something that we know for sure is false.  i think it’s called being…..”

me: “fucked up?”

pretty much.