I am moving up the stairs as quickly as I can, motivated by the vision of DYT’s taut buttocks ahead of me. If my lady ass can become even half of that, it will be worth it. DYT is much faster than me on the stairs, which makes sense because she is 18 years my junior. At least, that’s my current excuse, and I think it’s a good one. Continue reading
After attending two conferences in as many weeks, I have learned that strangers, especially white men, feel entitled to make unsolicited comments about women’s pregnant bodies.
These men can be from all walks of life – hotel staff, airplane travelers, and conference acquaintances. Yet no matter their position, when they see a pregnant woman working or traveling alone, their response is to (a) notice the woman’s belly; (b) make a remark about it; and (c) engage in unwelcome behaviour. Continue reading
“What happened to you?” my mother asks, turning around to look at the dusty farmer now sitting beside me in the back seat of the blue Valiant. The man is hunched over and emitting small gasps of pain. Raising frightened eyes, he slowly unwinds a stained cloth to reveal his right hand. As the farmer starts to shake and sweat, I catch a glimpse of two severed fingers, covered in blood. I am surprised by how small they are. The man then gathers the stumps back into his handkerchief, and presses the injured parts to his chest. I am not quite six years old. Continue reading
Q: Dear Fitbabe,
Hello, I am a regular gym goer, and have been observing a young girl who has an incrediably thin frame, and is always on the cardio equipment when I arrive, and is still on it after I have trained for an hour, showered and had a steam. I have mentioned her to the front desk staff and they say several others have brought it the attention of the personal trainers in the gym, but it is a difficult subject. Should I approach this girl with concern? Doesn’t the gym have a moral obligation to intervene? I am worried about her and I don’t even know her!
Regards, John Continue reading
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