A hunger for change

*This is the personal narrative written last year as a journalism assignment

The moment someone remained in polite silence after I uttered the self deprecating, yet not entirely sincere words “I should really lose some weight,” I knew that I could no longer ignore those two BMI points which re-categorise me from “normal” to “overweight. A procrastinator by nature and an emotional eater by disposition, here I sit four Easter eggs and one sentence later. These traits make for a formidable combination in my body’s personal vendetta against weight loss.

The cycle goes something like this; I get upset about my weight, eat something to make me feel better, while telling myself, “I’ll start exercising and stop eating chocolate tomorrow.” I eat more the next day, upset for not having kept the empty promises to myself, again. And that is the only thing that is empty about me. I have full hips, a full bust, full stomach and right now, a full mouth.

Funny how we tell ourselves little lies in as simple a thing as a turn of phrase. “These jeans are too small for me,” rather than the unpopular reality that you are too big for the jeans. Calories are the vindictive little bastards that sneak into your closet in the middle of the night and sew your clothes a size smaller. This is easier to believe than facing the truth that you are capable of changing your body for the better. You just choose not to.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, I choose food over self confidence every time. Rationalisations for my chocolate addiction include; “Since I am going on diet tomorrow, I wouldn’t want to tempt the diet-conscious me of tomorrow with this leftover slab of chocolate.” and, “It’s only a little, what can it hurt?” But hurt it does. It hurts when my favourite shorts no longer fit me. It hurts when people look at me and I place my own insecurity in their judgmental eyes. It hurts when I compare myself to other girls, fairing dismally in stakes of fashion sense and physical attractiveness. The phrase, “You are what you eat,” though overused, perfectly explains the difference between me and the girls I envy. I am the overly sweet, sticky, doughy bun that people are embarrassed to eat in public for fear of jam dripping down their chin. They are dainty cucumber sandwiches, healthy and delicate in the latest exclusively-flattering fashion trends. They don’t keep their arms firmly tucked in when they wave for fear of a subsequent wave from their sagging arm. They don’t look down at themselves, monitoring every wobble and stretch mark, noting changes that need to, but never will, be made. All of this negative energy could be put to far better use at the gym.

We can either accept ourselves as we are, or change it. Since change involves a treadmill, 5:30am wake ups and lycra, I am not in favour. Acceptance, however, is the harder choice. It involves realising that every tomorrow is not day one of dieting. That no man can offer the validation that is only found within. That you are beautiful the way you are.

It starts with little steps. You should find something beautiful about yourself every day and keep your head up while walking. You should compare your personality to the cucumber-sandwich girls, instead of your looks. You should find self confidence in your achievements. You have to make the choice not to put yourself down, and the choice to put down the chocolate will follow closely to self acceptance.

Rhodes Inter-Varsity: My 60km road race.

I pretty much picked Rhodes University because purple is one of my favourite colours. Both my parents have Rhodes bumper stickers on their cars (I would have a sticker too, but I have no car to stick it to). I often wear purple accidentally on SRC Purple Thursdays, though I am yet to win a Haricots cupcake. Or rally up any real enthusiasm for anything to do with the SRC besides exam treats. Sarcasm aside, I really am a proud Rhodent.

This weekend, as all Rhodents and most of the Eastern Cape know, is Tri-Var. (I feel I must stick to the old naming convention so as to fit in with all the cool third years, who also speak fondly of “Blanca” and “Old Gaol”).

Image credit: Adrian Miles.

Out of fear and general disinterest in both sport and alcohol poisoning, I am escaping to Kenton.

According to a student’s post on the Rhodes SRC Facebook group, the SRC are spending around R100 000 on the Tri-Var party. I don’t understand how this is allowed, as it is certainly not financially viable for an SRC which is in debt. Tickets are R20 if pre-bought, and R30 at the door. The good news is that apparently the projected number of students is around 6 000. This means that if all the students pre-bought their tickets, the SRC would make a profit of R20 000. Hopefully this won't be wasted on their alleged Steers account or end of year luxury vacation. According to this same student’s post, the 2011 SRC overspent approximately R300 000. That’s enough for three Inter-Varsity parties! What I want to know is: why weren’t we all invited?

Overspending is particularly upsetting in light of the recent student press bankruptcy. I admit that as a member of the Activate editorial team, I do have a personal interest in this particular aspect of student finances. As on member of our team put it: “ Just wondering how the SRC have no funds to help the student media cling to life but they are splurging on Intervarsity parties and other shit again. Priorities indeed. And now they have started rashing us for votes again for the 2013 SRC. I don't care how you rationalise it, you are perpetuating all the problems we see on a national political scale and showing little remorse. No wonder we are headed the way we are." Student newspapers should spend a bit over R100 000 per year on printing, though most of this is raised through advertising. Just to put things into perspective.

And, lucky us, it’s SRC Campaign Season again! If only guerrilla marketing and puns were the making of a good leader.

Dave and me at our last Kenton escape.
And look, I'm even wearing purple!

In conclusion: Tri-Var is a sporting event, not a drinking competition. I would hope that Rhodes spirit is alive all year round, not only when compelled by spirits of a liquid variety. The 60km drive to Kenton and a couple of walks on the beach are the only sporting activities I intend engaging in. That, and some competitive sleeping. I might wear purple, I might not. I most definitely will not be getting off-my-face drunk and making a bad name for my university, though. Now, go watch some damn sport, people!

The age of fitness fanaticism

Welcome to the age of Fitness Fanaticism, where the gym is open until 22h00 daily (20h00 on Sundays) and more regularly frequented by some than church. Why go to church when you can sweat out your regrets on the treadmill confessional? Each drop of perspiration and each heaving breath betrays your sinful weekday life and gluttonous weekend pillage in search of spoils. 

Monday is the most popular gym day.

On my way to school at 07h00, I see The Gym People out running. I have even seen them jogging in the rain. Shirtless. I look at these extremely fit morning people and I feel a bit sorry for them despite their killer abs and superior lung capacity. I suppose they feel sorry for me too. You can tell from a glance at my undefined cheekbones that I favour sleep over morning exercise.

Come spring time, posters go up around the gym reminding members that it is nearing bikini season. The flyers are slightly humorous but mosly threatening. Reality slaps you in the face with a cold fried chicken when you realise that you in fact suffer from the severe swimsuit dread syndrome (or SSDS for short) described on the posters and present with most, if not all, of the symptoms mentioned.

The only cure for this socially crippling disease? Gym.

Prognosis? Good. A slimmer, leaner and therefore better you.

Some people have come to the conclusion that exercise is just too hard and are taking the easy way out – plastic surgery. One hour under the knife for results that will look like you’ve spent your life running on the manual chocolate-churner at Willy Wonka’s factory instead of stuffing your face with the product. Worth it? Aside from the long recovery time, expense, scarring and huge risk, sure. Why sweat when they can just suck, squeeze, tuck, cut and stitch you into shape?

However, no matter the amount of sweating, calorie counting or the size of your plastic surgery trust, none can outrun the age of the airbrush.

 

*This is a creative piece written in my June English exam in Matric. I've altered and updated it a bit, but it's mostly the same. Comments and opinions encouraged! Image taken from http://www.flickr.com/photos/bangkokrecorder/3124848496/

A recurring theme

After a retrospective consideration of my interests over the years, I have come to realise that body image, beauty and Photoshop have been recurring themes. In Matric, I was part of an academic discussion group known as 12 Club (as there were only 12 members, highly prestigious, Rah rah!). One person spoke per month and prepared an hour-long on a topic of their choice. It had to be something they found interesting and believed everyone else would too. Out of all the topics in the whole world, and my varying interests in art history, English etc, I chose to research and plan and hour-long talk on the science of beauty. I plan to post a breakdown of the interesting facts sometime soon.

Also in Matric, I wrote my June exam on the “Age of fitness fanaticism” (to follow in a post also). To be fair, this selection was made from a pool of exceptionally average topics. In first year Journ, we had to write a personal narrative. What did I choose? Body image. It’s actually a piece I am quite proud of since I got quoted in lectures and used as a good example. It was the university equivalent of a gold star, and my inner nerd glowed. It’s unfortunate I can’t take my own advice and put down the chocolate, though. This piece is also to follow soon in a post which is a fairly big deal since only about three people have ever read it, all of whom were markers.

 My interest is not self-destructive in nature, but rather genuinely curious. I am somewhat sceptical of the view of the media being the biggest influence on women’s body image and self confidence. I feel more greatly influenced by those around me. These are the people who I compare myself to, not fashion models who look like a peanut would fill them up. I am interested in how eating habits and ideas of body image and beauty are formed. If you know how they are formed, I guess that would give you the power to alter them.

Ready, set, go!

I would like to be complimented in an insulting, lewd way. Degrade me! Whistle at me from ladders just so I can pretend I am offended you think my ass looks great  in white jeans. I want hot-girl problems. I am, however, willing to settle for well-toned-girl problems. And I intend to sweat, write and quite possibly moan my way to my ultimate goal.

“A blog would embarrass and motivate me into sticking to my goals.” This is my journal entry from mid-June and is the first time I put the idea of this blog into writing. This is not your average thinspiration blog advocating lemon water diets or puke-perfecting techniques. (Trust me, if I had that kind of problem I would just be a skinny bitch without a blog) . I am a grounded (well rounded) girl trying to tackle size 12 issues in a size 6 world. I believe this is something a lot of girls deal with at some point in, if not throughout, their lives.   

I want to have this blog so that on the occasion that I do go to gym, (or even more rarely, deprive myself of chocolate) I will feel more motivated because I can come back here and bitch about what a crap experience it was. Perhaps there will be an emotional whine or two (yes, I would like some cheese with that) but I hope to make this a positive, interactive project which will motivate me to do something I don’t like and am not very good at (exercise) by moaning about it via my most comfortable medium: writing.

Apparently, people who write down what they eat are less likely to overeat. If said food diary is published on a public forum, I’m guessing chances drop to next to nothing. Score.

Peace out and six-pack up