There’s a 99.10% chance that you had nothing to do with yesterday’s blog post, X. You can disagree with it, this is America after all. You can choose not to read my blog, if it really makes you crazy I highly recommend you don’t read it. Life’s short dude, free yourself the angst.
But I’m really certain that it had nothing to do with you. In fact, nothing in my life has anything to do with you. When things in my life are a direct result of things or people, I say so. Now, they’re usually more of a positive nature because when I’m not ranting I’m a pretty happy kid.
But you? Nope. So you can save the late night texts calling me an insecure, fat, alcoholic bitch because you thought I was calling you out. I wasn’t. In fact, you’re so far off my radar that other than last night’s little fun it wouldn’t even occur to me to call you out. Another fact, I’ve seen you at events around town and if anything I’ve done or written about in the past has made you so angry that you need to send such vitriol over the airwaves, you kinda could have come up to me and had a face to face conversation about it.
So, in conclusion, I own my words. I’ve written blogs that were unpopular. I’ve been called a bully over my blogs. That makes me shake my head but whatev. I often wonder if people even read them or read one line and react. It’s the rage these days so maybe.
But congratulations, you’ve finally got your own blog post. Screaming at me that women need to support each other and then call me names is an interesting way to go about life but hey, to each his own. Go live your life, a good one I hope. I actually really do. It would seem there are some anger issues deep (or not so deep) down but what do I know. I’m only a meathead in a gym. Feel the burn.
No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out? Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this? O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all— O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.
Unsurprising, one of the worst things an out of shape person can say to me is, “Oh I know I should go to the gym but I’m just not motivated like you.” And they do it in that tone that actually, clearly states that they are not only not wanting to “work out” but they’re throwing shade MY way for doing it as hard as I do.
First of all, no fucking shit Sherlock. Because for the most part, this is America and if you really wanted to hit a gym, chances are there’s a purpley one right down the road from you for the cost of one of your daily “value meals.” Second of all, do you even understand how completely offensive that is? (And if you know me, you know I don’t throw around the O word often.) As if going to the gym is this trivial little event in my day that has about as much impact in my life as wearing clean socks (I keep training socks in the gym, it’s a guess how gross they get before I remember to bring them in and wersh them. You can judge me but ya still gotta love me!)
I think what bothers me most of all, is that I feel compelled to respond in a much more mannerly, errrr, manner than what they’ve just said to me. What are some of the options?
A. Ya, don’t sweat it. I wish I could eat like shit as much as you do each day.
B. That’s okay, working hard isn’t for everybody.
C. You do not even remotely carry the work ethic needed for something like this. Maybe try Zumba?
Nope, they all sound bitchy and believe it or not, I try to use a finite amount of bitch points in a day and any one of those would suck up my points for the week. So usually I just smile and say, “Oh.” If I had much respect for the person beforehand, I don’t after that conversation. NBD.
I saw a Breitbart article being shared that discusses fat shaming and whether it’s okay to do so. See, here. Meh. The “article” is a dude’s opinion. And the dude, Milo, is a skinny fat with a cool name and (it seems) a legion full of interns who writes his articles. At least that’s one of the claims. What is that famous saying? When you point one finger at a person make sure it’s the middle one? Something like that. In other words, clean your own house before moving on to mine.
I’m not a believer of fat shaming. In fact, the word “shame” is probably one I’ve used less than 5 times in my life other than to say, “that’s a damn shame.” But those count too, still less than five. I hate that word. It was one of my mom’s favorites. Hello, welcome to my baggage. Shame on you! I’m so ashamed of you! I can see her face just typing the words and it wasn’t a happy one. (Her other favorite was, I may love you but I don’t like you. Hey parents, unless you want to raise an otherwise kinda cool kid who now believes that they are completely unlikable because even their mother can’t like them, don’t say that. It’s kinda mean. Couple that with a constant barrage of shame and, well, maybe you can get a feel of why I get kinda feisty.)
Now, I do write about the phats. Often. It’s a daily part of my life in my job and when I get on the scale. (Yes, I get on the scale believe it or not. I’m the same weight I was two years ago and gawdsdammit I’ll take that as a success. But watching to make sure it doesn’t go over that ‘X’ mark is important to me.) More on that in a bit.
There was a picture that popped up on my The Facebook memories of me in the Texas gym from about 7 years ago I think. My heart sunk when I saw it. I’m going to share it but it honest to god hurts my heart to do so:
No, the dog isn’t mine. He was a sibling of another and ginormous. Ok, so the picture. The reason it hurts my heart is because there, at probably 190# or so, I saw myself as a phat. In fact, one of the gyms out in the Seattle area we went to a few times a year had an owner who would make sure he called me a phat in three different ways during every visit and what hurts my head now is that I believed him then (I can only imagine what he’d call me now.) And it didn’t feel good. So to do that to anyone else, especially someone I know and respect is something that would absolutely crush me.
However, there are elephants in the room and the day comes that to NOT acknowledge the elephants is downright irresponsible. See, no one needs to tell me that I’m 30 pounds overweight. I know. I’m on it. Believe me, I’m fucking on it. But I have two goals right now. One big and one bigger, possibly even out of reach but don’t tell my brain-it doesn’t listen to that bullshit. I also have a 3rd goal, to get my weight back down to where I’m moving a bit quicker; feel better, and yes-even look better. So when this other stuff is all over, I’ve already told Mike Westerling that he’s stuck with me even longer and we’re going to get this weight off. After. (And no, I don’t want to hear one comment of “oh you’re this and that and your weight is fine.” I am as realistic about my strong points as I am about my flaws. I’m just fine.)
For now, I have my ‘X’ number. The magic number that when I get close or go over, there are a few “drastic” changes until it comes back down. (By drastic, I mean no wine or bratwursts. I just really really love brats. And wine. On that note, hang on, I need to get another glass of wine…)
Okay, I’m back.
My ‘X’ number is 230. That’s where shit goes south. I feel like I’m moving barbells through mud. I can’t rotate like I want to on my throws. I feel like utter and complete crap. I look even more bloated than I do now. Most importantly is that it keeps me from training and practicing in a positive way. Kinda like my version of being sick. Fat…sick…same thing. When I moved here, my weight was 215. My body has changed a lot and hitting 10×10’s for two off-seasons in a row brought on inflammation and hormonal fuck ups that I’m still dealing with today so even 8-10 pounds more than that with a changed body composition makes me wistful at times for the good old days of 215.
But 230. Shit gets locked down at 230. And it makes me wonder, do others have an ‘X’ number and if they don’t, should they? My opinion is, yes. Yes they should. One of the benefits of competing in two strength sports is meeting so many of the most awesome women on the planet. I’ve met weightlifters who are unable to squeeze into a tight position off the floor because of their weight but then say that weightlifting is only for fun so they’re not interested in losing weight to do better. (Of course my question is why the fuck bother? But I kinda like competing at a level as high as I possibly can and working hard to do so.) I’ve met, hell, I KNOW many Highland Games women who’s weight are not only teetering in the danger zone-but are outright at a scary situation.
And that, people, is the fucking obvious in the room. The trick of it, of course, is that we don’t want to be fat shaming. We don’t want to make people we love and respect feel bad. But if we don’t speak up, who will? Look, chances are high that folks who keep pushing that ‘X’ up and up and up don’t feel great. They know. They may have a loved one who has tried encouraging them to eat a little healthier; workout a little more but even so, will be the first one in the car for the nightly trip to the ice cream shop. (I actually know absolutely no one who goes to the ice cream shop nightly but are there other versions of eating that shit without actually having to get in the car each night?)
Look, we’re smart people. We KNOW the effects of morbid obesity. We know that people we love are taking days or maybe even years off their lifetime (wouldn’t it be a kick after writing this if I got hit by a bus or something tomorrow and all you people could be all, well where’d THAT get you Jules????) So I’m not leaving the house tomorrow, but then there might be a gas explosion in the house so I better leave it. I’ll hang in the gym. But’s it hot as fuck and a tornado might hit and Wicked Witch of the East my ass and then what? I’m screwed.
I had a conversation last winter with someone I love very dearly. She is everything good in the world. Funny and giving and loving and fun. She embodies goodness. But she’s too big. Sorry not sorry. She mentioned that she knows she needs to take better care of herself and I said,
YES YOU DO! I told her that she is too special to be risking the chance of cutting her life shorter than it could be. How can I help? She cried. I hated that. But I know she knows I’m here. And she knows I want everything good for her but she’s still not taking care of herself and I’m sad for her that she’s not. On the flip side, I threw with a woman five years ago down in Texas and she has made major changes to her lifestyle. She’s lost weight, I don’t know how much. Enough to feel and look so much healthier and in spite of a busy, busy life-she just pulled 275 in the gym. She doesn’t eat like a bodybuilder but she also doesn’t eat like an asshole. I don’t know if she has her ‘X’ number, I’ll ask her. But at some point she did. She hit it, exceeded it probably, and said NO FUCKING MORE!
Results not typical. I wish they were. Wouldn’t that be nice? Can you honestly look at someone you love right now and say, “I’m worried. We need to make a change. Because I love you and I need you around for longer than you’re giving me.” Can you do that? It’s a tough talk. Start here, let me be the bad guy. I can take it, I haven’t used my bitch points yet today.
I’ve written about this before. It bears repeating.
A few years ago, I started competing in Highland Games. Oh sure, I had done a Highlander a couple of years before that in Texas. That was fun. People were awesome and I think I PR’d my deadlift that day out in the Texas heat. Matt was there, healing from his first bicep tear. So he was put to work, judging our group. And we learned that Matt judging a group that I’m competing in wasn’t going to happen again. Heh.
I came into the Games with help from the likes of Brittney Boswell (whom I get to compete with in Minnesota again in a few weeks and hopefully more often since she’s made the trek up north); Sara Fleming; the Icelandic duo of Svavar and Lilja, and many others who were both helpful AND competitive. I liked that. That’s when I got the bug that this throwing stuff might be for me.
My almost full Games was here in Waukesha where I got help from another group such as Craig Smith; KO, and Mark Valenti. Soooooo, not too shabby of a group of throwers. Heh. They encouraged me enough to make me want to do more and I tried to find as much video during that winter to try to figure out what this throwing stuff is aboot. (Old dog, new tricks. Yowzer.)
That March, after an AMAZING trip to Finland for Bigg’s Iceman Challenge with Champions League, we hit my first FULL Games down in Springfield, Il. We started out with this Sheaf thing. W!T!Fffffffffff! You want me to do what with a pitchfork? The whole thing was bizzarro and truth be told, I’m still trying to put some consistency to the event. Of course, out of the larger group of Women, I was first up. Uhhhh, no clue dudes. Maybe I could watch someone do it?
Nope. It’s go time. I think I cleared 10′. Maybe. Now, in the meantime, there were a few folks who took charge in helping the noobs with the Sheaf in hopes that we don’t kill them, or ourselves. I thought that was nice, even if their delivery was a little baffling to me. One person got really frustrated with me that I wasn’t listening to her. IT’S LIKE A CHECK MARK…JUST DO IT LIKE A CHECK MARK!!! (Which actually is STILL something I stay away from telling new throwers. Anyway.) While it wasn’t helpful, and I was more than a little baffled why she was getting so mad, I played nice. Cuz I’m the new kid, and I don’t know what I’m doing.
And guess what? The next year, I was still the new kid. Now, I was able to pick up on some things that were helpful in throwing and I had those awesome novice gains (GAINZZZZ) throughout that first season. But that didn’t mean I knew what I was doing NOR did it mean I “ruled the field” in any way whatsoever no matter how small the venue or how large the Games. That would be poor sportsmanship. That would be rude. That would be unacceptable.
Here’s why:
The Games field does not belong to one person and if it did, it would be to the Athletic Director who works tirelessly to let us just show up and play. If it did, it would belong to the fans. No matter how small or how large that group of folks are, they have invested their time to watch us play. If it did, it would belong to those judges who are most likely some of our pioneers in this sport and if you don’t know their names or how long they’ve built up Highland Games, you need to get on the Google and figure that shit out.
You need to talk to people. Hell, if I can talk to people, anyone can. I try to introduce myself to folks I don’t know. Most are pleasant, some aren’t. That’s on them. (I introduced myself to a man last year in Portland when we were standing around for the Sheaf challenge and I was needing a fork. He looked at me like I had two heads, like, why in the everlasting FOK would I talk to him. It was pretty awesome. And by awesome, I mean hey douche, don’t care if you’re a Pro thrower or not. If you’re not a decent person, you suck and I give less than half a shit which category your scores are posted in. True story.)
But most of all, I give respect to my fellow throwers. Whether you’re an elite/pro (hey I know, let’s just call the women Pro’s, k? Let’s just anti some couch change and make this a little more level playing field, k? Oh I know, budgets are tight but ya know what? The crowd like the women more, k?. Think I’m wrong? I’m not. Oh sure, there are many Pro’s out there that are quite awesome and some really nice eye candy-I’m talking to you Gilly- but the crowd see’s the gals turning those Cabers just like the big boys and that gets them ALLLLLL kinds of excited. k?) Anyway.
No, it doesn’t matter if you’re best or newest, you all get the same amount of respect. Now, I whill say that if you’re best, I’ll watch you a little closer and if an opportunity presents itself, I’ll ask a quick question and I am ALWAYS so thankful for their help. But if you’re newest, I’ll still holla out a, “Let’s go noob” before an attempt or shag their shit if they forget and always give them the benefit of the doubt if they act silly enough on the field that backs things up.
To. A. Point. If they’re not paying attention enough after a few events and we’re waiting a couple of minutes for every single one of their attempts, I’ll say something like, “just try to stay engaged, I know it’s a long day but the quicker we get through this the quicker you can hang with your friends or family.” There have been a couple of Games where we actually asked the judge to give a warning to an athlete because they kept wandering off while we were roasting in the heat waiting for them.
I know, all of this is new and fun. Putting on a little show before every attempt is fun for adults who never got enough attention in life. And we’re forced to stand there and watch it. Which is tons of fun for about never.
Look, at the end of the day, it’s up to the experienced to teach a little etiquette. That’s okay. It shows that the Highland Games isn’t just about throwing. It’s about showing respect. It’s about showing an ability to play nice with others. It’s about being amazed by OTHER PEOPLE’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS. (read: it’s not about you.) Encourage others to watch.
Watch how those who’ve been around for a few years behave. It’s likely they’re always ready to go for their attempt. It’s likely they’ll walk out even a little bit and grab the implement from the nice person shagging their shit. It’s likely they work the crowd and even put a smile on their face after a horrible throw (that one’s been the hardest for me to learn.) They support their other throwers. They play nice. They support their judge even when their judge is wrong. (Bwahahahhahaaaa, j/klol. Judges are never wrong silly.)
They are dialed in to their throwing without being dicks. Learn that. Don’t be a dick. (Also, please accept that folks dialed into their throwing is okay. They may not want to wear a Tiara from Claires for a good throw, they’re just happy enough to throw a PR. Okay?)
Here’s what you DON’T do, especially as a noob:
A. Bark at a Pro athlete. For anything. Ever. You may even be right in your idea of what “should” happen on a field. But you’re not. You’re so wrong and now you’re just an asshole who’s wrong and likely not to make friends with a Pro. (You should want to make friends with a Pro. Cuz they’re probably awesome and helpful and tons of fun in the beer tent.)
2. Tell someone how to throw. Look, here’s some harsh mommy words, “You’re a C, maybe B thrower at best. You’re just repeating stupid words that another noob doesn’t know how to perceive only to look like you know what you’re talking about. STFU.”
III Do not ever, EVER, EVER, hit a Pro. Even if it’s in jest but not really because you connected and at it’s lightest, is so obnoxious and wrong in so many ways that you and I mostly likely have just become non-BFF’s for life. You will cross a line that is a one way ticket to dicksville. (And by the way, if you and I don’t have any relationship at all and you’ve thrown attitude on the field all day and THEN decide to put your hands on me, it is game on. I will drop you. I promise. I’m an old lady but have enough piss and vinegar flowing through my veins to unleash some pent up frustration and if you open that door, I will close it.) Hashtag true story.
4. DO NOT behave in a way that makes it torturous for your group to be around you. Do not disrespect the Highland Games. Do not teach others to bring attitude and disrespect to the Highland Games or those participating in them. Don’t pout. Don’t temper tantrum. Keep your fucking kilt on. If you don’t like wearing it, go compete in Track and Field. They throw and don’t wear kilts. What a great fit.
Come to the Games. Have fun. Get better each time out. Learn to fail on the field (I went 2-6 on the weights this weekend, soooooo, kinda like a weightlifting meet.) Learn to support others. Learn to lose. Learn to win. Learn to show respect.
Cuz fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life.
My name’s Pitt. And your ass ain’t talkin’ your way out of this shit.
It is a sad fact that, in general, folks don’t read enough these days. I blame Obama. And Carter.
Anyway.
I’d like to highlight my most recent read. It was entertaining and thought provoking. It evokes emotion like nothing I’ve read in a long time. While tragic, it remained light hearted and you just never knew what the next page would bring. That, my friends, is a good book.
Andy Riley’s, Dawn of the Bunny Suicides is one in line of many highlighting this oft tragic event. It is sure to make you think from now on, while managing daily menial tasks, how your actions are affecting suicidal bunnies. Example:
The Ozman just took his drivers test last week. He was doing great, but then almost got t-boned in an intersection because he failed to look left. He had his step-mom’s car so he said they were playing down the actual incident a bit. Heh. Anyway. Because of that, he gets to try again this week. He’ll be fine. I’m going to make sure he looks out for suicidal bunnies in cones though before he goes. And cars in intersections. I’m helpful that way.
I’m not very good at going to the movies. Usually I’ll just fall asleep and I don’t like to pay $10 to take a nap. Matt and I decided to hit a Tuesday cheap night where all movies are $5. Cool deal. We sat in the bistro lounge where, when you push a button, they bring you all the food and drinks you want. VERY cool deal. Our tab was $85. So that’s the last budget movie we’ve been to. Live and learn, folks. It’s part of life.
We go through the limes here at tosabarbell. Tell ya what, we’ll never get the scurvy in this house! Well, unless we run out of gin and tonics or brandy mules. Then we’ve got bigger problems than scurvy. Last Friday was hot. SO hot. Like, 80 something. How people bitch about winter and like the 80’s I’ll never know. Matt was on the road last week and caught an earlier flight home. He rolled in, hot as fok, and announced he was making a brandy mule. I was all, “Nooooooo, we’re almost out of limes and I want a gin and tonic when I’m done training!!!” So he ran to the store and got limes. Crisis averted.
The kids and I lived in a cozy little town called Hutchinson in Minnesota. Our house was right off the country highway JUST as you entered town from the north which meant we saw people getting pulled over all the time because they were still going 80 and the speed limit changed to 30 parallel to our street. The city decided to build roundabouts to try to limit crashes on heavy intersections AND slow down those entering town.
The caveat was that this was the route truckers/haulers would use, including those extra long carrying the bases for windmills. The first convoy that came through, post roundaboot, and tried to maneuver the narrow passage immediately got stuck. Uhhhh, fail. They tore up the roundabout; the grass on the roundabout, and stopped all traffic for about two hours until they could get help.
A week later? Same thing. The next convoy did the exact same thing. Now, I am no windmill carrying convoy expert but if I were, I’d call ahead and say something to the effect of, “hey guys, don’t go on that roundabout. It’s a trap.” So after it happened the third time (yes, there was a 3rd time. Wonders never cease) the route changed to a much longer, but straight, one from the west AND was given a police escort in town. It was very dramatic. But I still think of it whenever I see a windmill. Now I’ll think of that and suicidal bunnies. Life is strange.
Call me Ismael! or something like that. I dunno. I never read Moby Dick. You could almost ask yourself how the bunny stayed alive in the ocean, found tape and situated himself on the snout of a whale. Don’t do that, it ruins the funny.
Yesterday we went and watched Sue Hallen and Ruth Welding throw at a Masters track & field meet here in the Milwaukee area. Well, kinda. They started at 9 and I didn’t get out of bed until around 8 or so. I had to cook my food for the day and I made such amazing coffee that I had to sit down and enjoy it. At 10, I told the hubs it was uppy uppy time and then HE sat down with a cup of amazing coffee and by 10:45 I’m crackin’ the whip to get movin. So we only saw their weight for distance event which was still awesome. We also went and got some post throws food and beverages and had the most awesomely horrendous service that I was pretty sure we were being punked. (Example: at one point, she came and asked us if we were ready for the bill. Pretty normal, right? The problem was that our food wasn’t out yet and we hadn’t been sitting there too long. The list goes on, but that one was a first for me.)
Lastly, but shirley not least:
Now, hopefully the bunnycidals that wish to go this way know to attach themselves to Cabers being thrown by folks with last names such as Wilson; Vincent (pick one, doesn’t matter), or Crowley (may also use Steingraeber, also doesn’t matter.) They’re wasting their time if they pick one of mine, I haven’t turned a Caber yet this year. That may be more sad than suicidal bunnies. It’s a toss up.
At the end of the day, the mission is clear. We need to read more. I’m going to go out and get another Riley book. He has one called, “great lies to tell small kids.” I already love it. Stay tuned for a review.
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
tosabarbell 