What exercise has done for me

I've never been an athlete. Anyone who's known me for any length of time is well aware of this. Growing up, I never participated in sports of any kind. Somehow I got branded as unathletic, and I leaned into it. I pretty much gave up on my body's abilities to do anything beyond the basic functions needed to get through the day.

Actually, that's not true--I did have some athletic abilities, however small. My brother James taught me to pitch, and I'd pitch Wiffleballs to him until Mom demanded we come inside, until the light was gone. I probably continued to pitch well after he had left, and I was just hucking balls into the shrubbery. Plus I had always loved to dance. And I would run, of course; I'd chase boys or have boys chase me and actually those were the only two times I really ran all that hard. (I was often engaged in some kind of boy/me chase, up until it became weirdly thrilling, in a different, more confusing way.)

I've been thinking a lot lately about how I felt about exercise, growing up, and even into my adulthood, because now that I've taken up regular exercise I'm kind of floored at how much it's changed me. I don't mean physically, although that part is nice. I mean emotionally, mentally--it's changed me. I'm different now. How I'm different is hard to explain. Oh, but I'm going to try.

One night, my junior year of college, I caught my boyfriend looking at me strangely. We were on our way to a formal, so naturally I thought he was admiring my dress, or how my butt looked in my dress. "What?" I asked him, and he said, "I never noticed before: it's like you have two different bodies. From the waist up you're so tiny, but from the waist down you're much bigger. I guess your Irish genes took over the top half, but your bottom half is all Italian."

Well.

Instead of immediately dumping him, I turned away so that he wouldn't see that my face had turned dark red, changed the subject, and then dated him for another eighteen months. At which point (when I did finally dump him) he went insane and threatened to kill me, or himself, or kill himself in front of me--he couldn't choose which!--and then systematically destroyed every aspect of my senior year of college. But that's another story.

Let's go back to that moment, the moment my boyfriend sliced me in half, because it was at that precise instant that I went from feeling fairly content with my figure to feeling betrayed and humiliated, not by him, but by my own body. I was all wrong. I wasn't just heavy, or skinny--I was an entirely new, and awful, category.

I can't fully blame my boyfriend, as much of a jerk as he was. The seeds had been sown, long ago--by my lack of confidence in re: moving through space; by watching my mother and sister embark on one fad diet after another; hell, just by being female in this fucked-up culture, I was vulnerable to attack.

But still, even if he didn't plant the bomb, he found the trigger. I could never look at a picture of myself after that without feeling like I was looking at a Cubist painting. I didn't make sense to me. Surely everyone could see what a horrible, embarrassing creature I was. After a while I couldn't even identify what parts were so offensive--I was just hopelessly ugly, somehow. So I hid from cameras, and wore shoulder pads to even out my proportions, and dated anyone who told me I was pretty. Problem solved!

Fast forward to the present: I'm no longer wearing shoulder pads, I think I look pretty good most of the time, and my husband thinks I look good all of the time, so I'm already way ahead. I wrote a while back about how I started exercising pretty seriously, but actually I was still half-assed about it, if I'm going to be honest. I mean, I work from home, three blocks from the gym; I have zero excuse not to go every day.

So, a couple of months ago, that's what I started doing.

Well, almost every day. Six days out of the week, I'm there. I run, or I lift weights. I enjoy it, kind of a lot, which shocks me more than I can say. But here's what I want to tell you, finally: every time I go, every time, my body makes a little more sense to me. It's like exercise is reorganizing the image I have of myself, shuffling things around into a more accurate picture. Exercise is why, when I went to the doctor last week for the flu and learned that I had gained an unseemly number of pounds, I thought, "Okay, time to lay off the cheese and cookies every day," and didn't hyperventilate out of fear and shame. Because this is my body, and it works, and I prove that to myself, every day.

Exercise has taught me what my body is, what it can do, and where anyone who tells me it's not good enough can go.






Here's a story about the bathroom

Yesterday I had a business lunch at a fancy lunch place, which, as we all know, is where you go when you need to business in the middle of the day. First thing I did when I got there, after greeting my date in the work-appropriate manner (passionate frenching) was visit the bathroom. I had just emerged from the subway, and there is no way, after riding the subway, I can sit and eat anything until I scour myself from the elbows down. Maybe also the face. Maybe my face touched something. I can't be 100% sure it didn't.

Before I've even entered a restaurant, I fret over the location of the bathroom. Restaurants enjoy hiding their restrooms so that you have to wander about, sometimes finding yourself in the kitchen before someone sets you straight. This is how the restaurant staff gets back at you for making them feed you. I hate this. I hate walking around with that look on my face. That "I'm acting as I know exactly where I'm going, and I'm about to march straight into a supply closet" look. And then there are the places that can't just indicate "Men" and "Women" on their separate bathroom doors. They have to get cute about it. And you standing in front of the two doors, wondering, "Damn it all, am I a 'Buckaroo' or a 'Cowpoke'?"

Fortunately, my initial worry was alleviated right off the bat. Before I had even sat down, the waitress saw my haunted I Touched Subway expression and pointed me toward the restrooms. She was clearly new at her job, and hadn't learned to loathe us.

The bathroom door had a W on it, which I swear I hesitated about for half a second. "Is that 'Women,' or 'Whoa, This Room's for Dudes'?" I wondered. This was a classy establishment, however, so I was fairly confident in my decision as I strode in.

Here's what happened next. As I was closing the door to one of the stalls, I got my shoe stuck underneath it. I looked down at the shoe and the stall door and tried to figure out how I had managed to wedge my foot in such a painful manner, and I pulled on the door, hard, which is when it came loose and slammed into the front of my skull. I then fell back, where the toilet was, and had to fling both arms out to brace myself against the sides of the stall. Which caused my leather-soled flats to slide on the tiled floor, just enough that I landed, hard, right on the toilet seat. This all happened in a few seconds. WEDGE-SLAM-FALL-BRACE-WHOOPS-THUD. It was fantastic. My head hurt a lot.

I was inexpressibly thankful that I was alone, and no one had witnessed this ludicrous display. (Nor did anyone see me attempt to close the door again, once I had recovered, and find that the door wouldn't latch, and then go to the next stall, and then the next, before realizing the mechanism that latched the door was a turn-y thing and not a pull-y whatsit. I blame the head trauma for this.)

I swore no one would ever know of my embarrassing episode, so naturally I immediately told my lunch date. And then I got home and told Scott and Henry. And now I am telling you.

An unpleasant encounter

I am lucky to have come across merely a few dangerously unstable people in my life. Here is one of them.

It was 1996, it was the end of the workday, and I was exiting the office of my Web 1.0 job. I was the managing editor of a webzine. We called them webzines, sadly. It was the kind of webzine that purposely misspelled words, and interviewed super-hip bands I had never heard of. I was 27, but I already felt too old to work there. One of my fellow editors was still in college. That seemed about right. During my first pitch meeting I mentioned this thing I heard about called “Burning Man.” It was new to me, but from the looks on everyone’s faces, I might as well have suggested we write about Jewel. The editor-in-chief rolled her eyes and I knew I would never recover from that faux pas, or any of the trillion others I would commit because I had no idea what was cool. I spent most of my days at the webzine trying to look like I understood what everyone was talking about, or cringing at all the ironic typos.

We were housed in a small, narrow office building just north of Houston Street (of course), the kind which is mostly occupied by business that employ leggy German models (as one does). Just standing in the elevator among all those cheekbones was enough to destroy any last shreds of self-confidence I had left by the end of the day. I was rushing out of the elevator on the day in question when I saw a woman just outside the door, studying the directory. She was a handsome lady—in her late forties or fifties, I’d say, blonde and immaculate, and let’s just all picture Martha Stewart, because I would swear that’s who it was. Although I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m 83% sure.

While she studied the directory, she was blocking the exit. I was sure she saw me, and anyway in order to leave I had to hit a red button that emitted a piercing beep when the door unlatched. You could not help but hear this when you were outside. It deafened anyone within a block radius. I assumed, therefore, that when I hit the button she would look up and move. I waved at her, but she kept gazing at the directory. The pride of Deutschland was lined up behind me. I hit the button, paused, and slowly opened the door. I opened it a few inches so I could say “excuse me,” but before I could say anything I saw that she was bending over, like she was examining something on the ground.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Oh God.” She was clutching her ankle. Which, it immediately became clear, I had hit with the door. Now, because I hadn’t opened the door so much as gently nudged it forward, I could only imagine that she had some sort of injury that I had aggravated, with my door-opening. Still, I felt terrible. My frantic need to get some distance from the building had caused me to injure an innocent bystander.

I began to apologize. A lot. What else could I do? I apologized and apologized. She wouldn’t acknowledge me. Her hands were trembling. I shuffled aside to let the assorted beautiful people out. They were unaffected by our non-leggy psychodrama and they glided down the sidewalk, leaving me alone, standing behind Martha Stewart. She was hissing some stuff. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know what she was hissing.

“I’m really sorry,” I repeated. “Can I get you something? Oh dear. I guess you didn’t hear the alarm go off, huh?”

This, it turned out, was the wrong thing to say. When you strike a person, accidentally or not, you do not imply that it was in fact their fault. Especially if, say, they’re looking for a reason to come unglued.

“You mhurrhurr,” she muttered, and I gingerly touched her shoulder to ask her if I should get her some ice. And then I was on the ground.

I did not expect this turn of events. Even today, I’m not clear on how I got down there. She must have knocked me down, but all I can recall is how confused I was. I was up there and now I am down here. Well.

What happened next occurred in a matter of seconds. Martha Stewart screamed “You little twit. Look at what you did. Look at what you did.” And every time she said “you did,” she thrust her foot toward me, only it was into me, so actually she was kicking me, right around the knee area.

I was trying to figure out if she was kicking me with the injured foot or putting all her weight on the injured foot in order to kick me--because after all, if you have an injury, you should really wait a few days before you use that body part as a weapon—when the people arrived. Almost immediately a crowd had gathered. This is the wonderful thing about New York City. People will not hesitate to step into the middle of any fight—at least, when the involved parties are unarmed, female, and one of them is wearing an expensive pantsuit.

“She assaulted me,” Martha Stewart screeched. She really seemed to mean it. I assaulted her! Could it be true? Was I carrying so much pent-up rage throughout my day that I had to unleash it on someone’s ankle?

But before anyone could even turn to me to get my side of the story, my victim headed off (without a limp) down the street, shrugging people off of her, screaming expletives until she could no longer be seen.

And what did I do? I ran the hell away (in the other direction). People were looking to me for clarification, but more than anything, I wanted to escape. I got on the subway and tried to make sense of it, but it was like trying to decipher the angry rantings of a paranoiac. I hit a lady and she yelled and then I was on the ground and kick run what? I told the story to Scott, and maybe a friend or two, and then stopped. It was not a fun story to tell. It exhausted and confused me. Then there was the secret conviction that it was actually my fault. Why hadn’t I waited a second longer before opening the door? Why had I mentioned the alarm?

I probably shouldn’t add that I spent weeks unable to sleep because I was frantically recreating the incident so that I said the right thing and she didn’t call me names. Fortunately I was in therapy at the time. Not enough therapy, I suspect. At any rate, I am happy to report that I no longer believe I was the responsible party. Mostly. I’ve made some real progress!

I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this story now, 14 years later. I guess because I still think about it. I wonder about that lady. What did she think actually occurred? Did she tell her friends over cocktails about the young woman wearing crushed velvet and platform shoes who brutalized her foot? Or did she slow down after a few blocks, realize she wasn’t limping, and think, “Dear me, I seem to have overreacted again”? Maybe I can get on her show someday, and ask her.

An adventure

So I got over my cold/flu/near-death-experience last week, sort of, but I've still been feeling a little off. My ear, specifically, felt like something besides an ear. Like a wrench, or a possum. The important thing is, ear pain, ouch. And we're heading to Utah tomorrow. This morning I kept evaluating my earache. Did it hurt? Was I imagining things? Is that sore gland on my neck really sore or is it just sore from poking it?

The last time we went to Utah to visit my brother-in-law and charming family, I ended up having an anxiety attack over a sore throat that, during the flight, morphed into the Throat of Many Horrors, and we drove to an urgent care clinic while I croaked and gasped only to be told there was nothing terribly wrong, just a little cold, ha ha, whoops. So I really wanted to get this ear problem checked out before I got to Utah and embarrassed myself all over again. Not to mention, ear problems plus plane equals my eardrums exploding all over the other screaming passengers.

I don't have a doctor in the neighborhood because I've been so astonishingly healthy, I didn't really need one, unless it was to visit the waiting room and laugh at all the sick people. But thanks to the Internet I found a doctor within a block of my home--a physician whose Yelp reviews were positive and did not include the terms "murderer" or "unsanitary prodding." I called, they asked if I could come in a half-hour, and before they could hang up the phone I was there.

Highlights of my appointments are as follows:

1. The look of undisguised horror on the receptionist's face when I told her the amount of my deductible. I always feel like I'm showing someone my war wound, when I tell them how much I have to pay out of pocket. I almost told her our monthly fee, but I was afraid it would kill her. She seemed delicate.

2. The doctor asking me about my family history of cancer, which I had filled out on the form. "What kind of cancer?" he asked, and I said, "Uh, colon-rectal?" He asked, "Who had colon cancer?" My maternal grandmother, I told him. Then he said, "And who had rectal cancer?" and I realized "colon-rectal cancer" wasn't one thing, but instead of saying that I said, "Same grandmother," and he looked at me and instead of explaining myself I let out a loud, barking laugh. And he just continued to look at me.

3. The nurse repeatedly entered the room to get supplies and every time she did, the doctor would swivel around to glare at her, and she would stop and glare right back at him, and they would be frozen like that for at least two or three seconds, the two of them staring each other down, and each time I wondered if I should applaud. Or eat popcorn! It was exciting.

4. After the doctor was done investigating my ear canals, he gazed into my eyes and whispered, "We will treat you." I felt like I was supposed to fall into his arms out of sheer relief. Finally! Someone dared to get close enough to me to treat my horrible plague!

When I returned home, there was a message from the doctor, apologizing for misspelling my name on the prescription slip. Then there was another message from him on my cell phone. I checked the prescription, and I swear to you, I think he thought my name was "Alice Bundles." I pictured him with his wife that night, discussing his day. "I saw the oddest patient today. A Miss Bundles. She laughed openly about her grandmother's horrific double cancer and then failed to applaud our mini-soap opera, 'When the Door Opens.' Curious."

THEN (you're going to get my entire afternoon, so you sit back and you enjoy it) I walked to the drugstore by Henry's school so I could wait around for the prescription and eventually pick him up. It's a longish walk, since we've moved, but it's pleasant. WHEN IT IS NOT 135 DEGREES OUT. (The humidity makes it feel like 543.) Also, because of the appointment, I had failed to eat any real kind of lunch. Mama needs her food, lest she get shaky. I normally eat every three hours, like clockwork, and if I don't I kind of fall apart. And yet, instead of eating while I waited for the prescription like a sane person, I went to the bookstore like a health-hating lunatic. Which is all to say that by the time I picked up Henry, I was trembling and sweaty and even though I had torn into the antibiotic pack right there in the drugstore, my ear infection was not yet healed.

Because we're heading to Utah tomorrow, today was Henry's last day of school. I said I would take him out for a treat, and while I wanted to go to the sit-down place, where a person can sit down and there is air conditioning, he begged to go to this other little coffee shop, where there's nowhere to sit and the entire place fills with post-school children and their parents and you pretty much want to die in there. But I was so addled and sweaty, I said okay, and we headed in.

Aaand then I got into an altercation with the guy behind the counter. I won't go into the boring details, but when a person asks for iced coffee and you give her a hot coffee and she politely tells you she asked for iced, even if you think she's wrong, just give her the damn iced coffee. Especially when it's 90,000 degrees outside, and no one in their right mind would ask for hot coffee.

At any rate, I was already nearing unconsciousness and this guy was so unnecessarily mean and Henry wanted his treat and I just wanted to buy it and get out of there and I had to get the attention of another guy because the first one had refused to help me and had, in fact, taken Henry's treat off the counter and put it back in the display, NO TREAT FOR YOU. And while I tried to get this other guy's attention, I totally lost it. I was a crying, shaking mess. I am sure the other people in there thought I had lost my mind. She really wants her snack, they thought. That Alice Bundles. She sure does like cupcakes.

It all worked out, in the end. Henry got his cupcake, and we got out of there. Scott met us on the street because by then I was really worried I might pass out (don't ask me why I didn't stop for food--my mind was gone). We made it home. And look! At least I had a story to tell you.