Feminist Figure Girl: Look Hot While You Fight the Patriarchy
September 08, 2010
Introduction Becoming Feminist Figure Girl
Even more appealing to me was the chance that my plan would fail, and that I would be unable to compete on stage. My literal failure was certain, for I could never win a figure competition, and would likely not even place in the top ten at an entry level contest. Continue reading
That will teach you to laugh at our hats, European bitches!
Brits sure love to row, I think to myself, flashing back to the televised Heritage Minute in which a group of Canadians win the World Championship in 1867. Oh how the badly dressed fishermen sniggered as their heavy boat slid by the fancy pants team from Oxford. Now it’s my turn to show those weedy coxswain-knockers what’s what. After hunching over musty medical books at the Wellcome Library all week, I cannot wait to work my back. I settle onto a machine at the busy Tottenham Court Road gym—ah, the seat is still warm—turn the tension up to 10, pop in my earbuds, and push through my legs and torso before pulling the bar to mid chest while leaning back slightly. Check that form, baby! My feeling of euphoria does not last long, coming to an abrupt halt when a young woman awkwardly straddles the machine beside me. She is skeletal, her painfully knobby knees and shin bones protruding though a layer of thin skin. Continue reading
Let me start by admitting that I am a fan of Jamie Oliver, the English chef and media personality. I don’t find him particularly good looking, never having been drawn to roast beefy morons, a term I learned by watching Blackadder. Continue reading
Historian of bourbon.
”There’s one,” I say to my LSP, pointing to a thin man dressed in a fitted blue blazer. “There’s another,” I nod toward a middle-aged woman with a smart jacket and chunky jewelry. “But I can be even more specific,” I brag in my braggardly way. “See that slightly unkempt fellow with the earnest beard and elbow patches? He is definitely a labour historian.” One by one, I categorize the people entering the Sheraton New Orleans. “Historian of sexuality. Activist environmental historian. Economic historian of the determinist persuasion. Uh oh, check out the disillusioned grad student with recent haircut and sad bow tie.” We both sigh knowingly. Although I too am in town for the annual meeting of the American Historical Society, I am wearing jeans, sensible shoes, and a hoodie, heading out for a tour of the French Quarter. I should probably be fired. Continue reading
It’s December 31, 2012, and time that I performed a dreaded chore which I have been putting off for 18 months now. “What the hell FFG?” my impassioned readers are shouting, at least in my mind. “We thought that you were an overachiever, a non-procrastinator. We don’t even know you anymore!” Wait, I can explain. After finishing Chapter Four of my book earlier today, then responding to e-mails, and starting to pack for my upcoming trip to New Orleans, I had finally expended enough energy to sit down and watch the DVD disks of the Northern Alberta Bodybuilding and Figure Championships in which I competed on June 4, 2011. One word sums up this viewing experience: Boring. Continue reading
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