Most comments on my blog posts turn out to be spam, usually ads promoting sexual enhancement devices in intriguing Slavic languages. Every now and then I will get an enthusiastic compliment, but engaged discussions are rare. My rather popular ‘When Did I Become Such an Asshole?,’ written in September 2010, Continue reading
Yesterday I remembered why I am a gym rat. While training quads with DYT, I was focused and determined; sweat dripped from my curly long hair, muscle spasms engulfed my legs, dizziness filled my head and chest. Fuck yeah, it was like old days and god how I missed them. My 3-hours-each-day precompetition training is often easier than before because I now need to get smaller, targeting my shoulder caps with volume instead of weight, and replacing muscle growth with fat loss. Rather than grunt my way to failure, I regularly do half-way chin ups that engage lats while mostly avoiding my hulking traps. Continue reading
Yeah, this time it is exactly what you think: me taking pleasure from caresssing my own body. I can’t stop running my hands over my abs, for example, because for the first time in my life I can feel them. The middle of my body is a relief map, all hills and valleys. A small circular sinkhole has formed in the centre of my ribcage beneath my breasts. I thought only chickens had that. What’s that I hear you say? Please tell us more about this fascinating subject? Okay I will.
As I lean out—I have now lost 12 pounds—a new body is emerging from beneath the melting layers of fat. This process reminds me of Michelangelo’s conceptualization of sculpture; according to him, chiselled human figures gradually surfaced from inside the hard marble, as if they were in bathtubs from which water was slowly drained. My less impressive work of art is similarly being revealed, and I think I like it. As I score rather high on the autism spectrum, I also like making lists. Here is a points-bulletin account of some things I have learned about myself during this ‘cutting’ period:
1. I am a veiny mother fucker. My forearms, biceps, and shins are vascular even when I am at rest. My lower torso is an outrage. It looks as if my uterus has been dissected, but not by Gunther Von Hagens. Instead it resembles the work of Jacopo Berengario da Carpi from about 1520. Please see the visual examples below, though I should note that I could never adopt the posture of the figure on the right, who is precociously making a vagina print. Those damned Renaissance women thought of everything first.
Wearing only a heavy white bathrobe, I recline on a narrow bed, my kicked-off flipflops nearby. A group of women gathers to watch as a professional irons my neck. ‘Does it hurt?’ asks a nearby voice. I cannot see this curious consumer because my eyes are protected by goggles from the flashing light of the SkinTyte laser being dragged up and down my lower face and neck area. ‘Oh no,’ I lie expertly, ‘at first there is a tingling sensation and the laser becomes warm by the fifth pass over my skin, but it is never more than slightly painful.’ I am performing my duty well, having received a $500 skin-tightening treatment for free by agreeing to participate in a seminar at the spa where I get laser hair removal on my legs and underarms. (I go somewhere cheaper for the full monty; see the post called ‘Pursuing Pain’ for a vivid description of that delightful sensation). Declaring that I would be the perfect model, my Lebanese aesthetician—she trades her fattoush recipes for my weight lifting tips—had handed me this invitation:
Am I the only woman in the world who absolutely hated The Black Swan? What a melodramatic piece of cheese. Sure Natalie Portman was good—great in fact—but the story was predictable and stereotypical. I prefer a little subtlety in my art forms. Bored out of my mind in the theatre, I chewed through three packs of sugar free gum. Result? Horrible gas and there goes the best part of date night! Sorry G-Smash, I know you loved that film, but ugh, I gotta be me. Continue reading
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