Pet Peeve: People Who Complain About Being Too Pretty

You know who I really want to sympathize with? Debralee Lorenzana, the banker who was allegedly fired from Citibank for being too sexy. When the story first broke a couple of weeks ago, my initial reaction was dismay at one more woman being Windexed off the glass ceiling. But then Debralee started talking and hasn't shut up since. Every interview I read with this woman - and she is everywhere, no one can say she isn't taking full advantage of her new notoriety - makes me a little angrier and a lot more irritated.

In a Village Voice interview (via Jezebel) she says, "If being less good-looking means being happy and finding love and not being sexually harassed and having a job where no one bothers you and no one questions you because of your looks, then, definitely, I'd want that. I think of that every day."

See, Debralee is one of those people who likes to chronically whine about how hard her life is because she's just too darn pretty. Everyone knows somebody like this. In college I had a roommate who was blond and tiny and blue eyed with eyelashes so long she was constantly tugging on them to prove they weren't falsies. And her favorite topic of conversation was how hard it was to be her. To this day her Facebook statuses say things like "I ate 6 Reeses Peanut Butter Cups today and I'm still a size 0! Why can't I gain weight??! I'm having Ben & Jerry's for lunch - wish me luck!!!!!" If she could mind-read what I'm really wishing her I'm sure we'd no longer be Facebook friends.

There are other permutations of the I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt persona: the guy who claims he's been fired from every job because he's too smart and his bosses feel intimidated by him or the reality star who claims that everyone hates her because she's just too honest and "real" for reality TV. But none of them get under my skin quite like the I'm Too Pretty person.

While I do understand how beauty could be detrimental in some situations - I swear I'm not totally missing the empathy gene - it just screams false humility to me. By telling everyone not to look at them, they're inviting everyone to do just that. Like when Jessica Biel told Allure magazine that she doesn't get offered many good movie roles because she's too beautiful. I wanted to write her and ask if perhaps it's because she's not a good actress? I saw 7th Heaven, people. Not to mention how insulting this attitude is to people who have to live with the very real and much worse effects of being not pretty in a society that values nothing more than sex appeal. My roommate once said to me, "I wish I could just trade places with you for a night - you know, so I could blend in and watch the guys without being mobbed by them. You're so lucky!" What she really meant of course was that I should feel lucky to be her official purse holder/seat saver/designated driver.

But I have to admit that where Debralee really lost her case with me was when footage from a 2003 plastic-surgery reality show surfaced showing her getting multiple surgeries including implants, a tummy tuck and lipo to acquire her desired shape, one she describes as "t*ts on a stick." First she decries Citibank's actions, "Are you saying that just because I look this way genetically, that this should be a curse for me?" and then we find out that actually she's not this way genetically.

Unfortunately, none of this should matter one iota in her case against Citibank. If she was truly fired for wearing "turtlenecks and pencil skirts" despite having above par performance then she deserves to win her discrimination suit. But that doesn't mean I have to like her. Can Citibank fire her for being obnoxious?

What do you think about Lorenzana being fired for being "too sexy"? Do you know someone who is always complaining they're too sexy/smart/rich/thin? Is my annoyance really just sour grapes?

Body Fascism: Why I Hate Food

I'm just going to warn you straight out. This post is crazy. And if you are one of those people who gets crazy reading about my crazy then you probably want to skip all the crazy and go straight to your therapist (do not pass Go, do not collect 200 xanax). Which is where I would be venting this nonsense if she hadn't abandoned me for the prison system (sure, like people in prison need excellent therapists... oh, um, right.)

I hate food.

If there was a pill that I could take every day and never have to deal with eating actual comestibles (note to self: now there's a fun word that doesn't get used nearly enough!), I would take it in a heart beat and never look back.

Hunger feels like failure to me. (Which is probably the stupidest sentence I've ever written - and I'm the same girl who once wrote a 600 word post for a celeb site I can't name about how Michelle William's blousy shirt made her look pregnant. Newsflash: blousy shirts make all of us look pregnant. And I'm wearing one right now. Nope, not pregnant, just ate a huge lunch. Which brings me back to my point thereby negating the necessity of these parentheses.) Despite the fact that every human being on the planet gets hungry at least several times a day and it is a natural biological signal necessary for survival, I still feel like if I just had enough self mastery I would never get hungry. And if I never got hungry then I would never be held hostage by my growling tummy, staring down an unholy array of foods while mentally cataloging the nutritional pros and cons of each.

In the past I've dealt with this "paralysis by analysis" by just not eating. Going to bed with the growlies was preferable to trying to figure out if the organic chicken or non-organic tempeh was the lesser evil. (But one's an animal product and I don't eat animals! But the other one's soy and soy gives me gas that clears a room faster than a wrapping paper fund raiser!) Nursing the ever ravenous Jelly Bean has, understandably, removed this option. Along with the fact that Lamaze breathing does zilch for labor pain, something else they never tell you in childbirth class is that lactating will make many of us as hungry as a popgut at a picnic. Hunger, when your boobs are responsible for feeding an exponentially growing human being, feels like a true emergency. I don't care how many times Judith Beck tells me hunger is not an emergency, it still feels like code red.

So, unable to decide what an appropriate meal and caloric allotment should be, I procrastinate eating until I can't put it off any more and then - because I'm so hungry - I eat something truly crappy. Like jelly beans. And as soon as I eat it, the guilt sets in. Really, it doesn't need to be jelly beans or some other junk food to induce guilt. I feel guilty after eating raw spinach. I feel guilty after eating. Period. Allow 15 minutes or so for the sugar high to wear off and the guilt to peak and then the cycle starts all over again.

I am so tired of this cycle. I am so tired of caring what the scale says every morning. I'm so tired of reading nutritional labels like they're the secret to world peace. I'm so tired of getting enthused about some new weight loss plan/tip/trick/non-diet/etc. and then realizing after I've invested time, money and energy into it that there is no one-shot cure. I'm so tired of wanting to shake anyone who tells me I look good and scream at them, "Can't you see how ugly I am?!?" (I'm like one of those sad drunks at parties. But without the drunk. Or the party.) I'm so tired of crying my eyes out (in the original draft of this post I wrote "me eyes" - which if I'm going to be crazy, an Irish accent would be awesome, no?) over pants that don't fit, shirts that don't button and the weird fact that despite my feet not growing a centimeter bigger during my first four pregnancies, they seem to have enlarged by at least half a size from number five thereby making my lovely shoe collection painfully obsolete. (On second thought, that last one totally justifies a few tears.)

But mostly I'm tired of believing that if I just weighed XXX, I'd be happy.

I may be nutso - a fact I freely admit - but even I know that that isn't true. Happiness is a choice. And every day I am choosing to make myself miserable over something so inconsequential as to be embarrassing. It makes me angry. How did I ever buy into this fallacy that I am my pants size? Who was the first person to tell me that I wasn't good enough? And why did I ever believe them? And most importantly, if I can choose to believe this crap, can I just choose to unbelieve it? Can it possibly be that simple?

I have a daughter. A glorious, beautiful, perfect-just-as-she-is-even-though-she-chronically-reeks-like-barf baby girl. And I am her touchstone. No matter where we are, when anything novel happens her first instinct is to look at me. When her eyes lock on mine, I know what she's doing. She's reading me. If I'm scared, then she is too. If I'm happy and unconcerned than so is she. This trust. This responsibility. It's so overwhelming; I don't feel worthy. And yet it's a gift to see myself through her eyes. To her I am the most beautiful creature in the world.

Can a mother who has a "complicated" relationship with food have a daughter who doesn't? I'm not the only one asking that question. And yet none of us have answers. Our culture has been overtaken with a mass delusion my friend Dr. Jon calls "body fascism." In an e-mail response to my post about Jessica Simpson he wrote, "I doubt it's an original combination, but this preoccupation with image in our mad little world has many of the hallmarks of Nazi-like intolerance and bigotry. We've become obsessed with "ideals" to the rejection of common sense, leading to stereotyping and stupid intolerance, and to an eating-disordered world . Malnutrition isn't just about starvation, it's eating too much of the wrong things as well, and living without balance . Body Fascism rules - Sieg Hiel!"

I asked before if the solution was as simple as just choosing not to believe the thousands of negative messages I'm bombarded with on a daily basis. I think it might be. Unfortunately simple doesn't mean easy.

I've asked you all before how to reconcile my need to eat with hatred of food. And I apologize for not listening when you shared all your secrets with me before. What is the answer? Therapy? Intuitive eating? A frontal lobotomy? Have you managed to change your relationship with food for the better? Please please tell me again. I'm listening this time.

If there was a pill that could totally replace eating, would you take it?

My Pet Gym Peeve: Cigarette Smoke

A first for me at the gym today: I actually got off my treadmill and moved to another one because of the person next to me.

For some this might not be a big deal but I pride myself on being very tolerant of all different kinds of weird human afflictions. Bad gas, stinky sweat, singing loudly to a tune only they can hear, talking on their cell phone, heavy breathing, clouds of cologne and even, on occasion, leering. I'm not saying I enjoy any of these things (especially not the leering and especially not when you consider that at the time of day I work out the only men around to be doing the staring are over 70) but we're all people, right? I'm not going to switch my 'mill off and start over just because you sneezed into the fan and crop dusted the gym with your germs. In addition to my tolerance, I'm also pretty tough in the ol' immune system. It takes a lot to get me off my equipment. So what, for the first time in 3 years, drove me across the room quicker than you can say "Which one of these brightly colored buttons is the emergency stop?"?

Cigarette smoke.

And not just a little bit. I can handle a whiff of Marlboro reds - takes me right back to high school where that was the cig of choice for my underage friends - but this was different. It was like the gentleman had chain smoked three packs and then dutch-ovened himself so he could marinate in it all night long. (True story: this past weekend the Turbo girls introduced me to the concepts of a "dutch oven" - where you fart in bed and then hurry and pull the blanket over your bedmate's head - and a "Conestoga" - where you fart in bed and then flap the covers until they resemble a covered wagon. How have I lived all my 31 years on this planet and never known that bed-farts have names?! I've been dying to throw that into a conversation ever since but oddly there hasn't been much occasion for new fart nomenclature lately so you guys get it instead. You're welcome!)

I noticed the stench when he got on but I had less than a mile to go so I tried to brush it off - think of happier things, you know, like my grandmother who used to chain smoke with her oxygen tank next to her. And I say "used to" not because she blew herself up (that would NOT be a happy memory) but because at 80+ years she finally kicked her pack-a-day habit! Woo hoo! One of the upsides of Alzheimer's Disease - probably the only upside - is that you can't remember where you put your lighter. But back to Cigarette Man. The problem really started when he finished his warm-up, peeled off his sweatshirt (smokeshirt?) and started running. The nicotine sweat started rolling off of him in waves. For the first time since we did Lindsey's barf circuits last month, I thought I was going to hurl. I threw my sweat towel over my face, grabbed my stuff and high-tailed it to the farthest possible treadmill.

I suppose I should have been happy that he was trying to negate some of that smoking-induced lung damage by getting in some good heart-pumping cardio but instead all I could do was try and think of creative ways to tell him to quit the cancer sticks. Oh and be bitter that he was polluting my hard-earned pink lungs with his toxic sweat gas. In the end I didn't say anything to him but I kind of hope he got the message when I ran away.

And while I'm on this subject, my second pet gym peeve: tons of cologne or perfume! If I can taste your Drakkar Noir then I cannot be held responsible for tripping you while you run past the toilets (oh yes, at my Y the toilets are right on the track) in the hope that you will fall in and wash some of it off. I'd rather smell your sweaty stank any day of the week.

Was that terribly rude of me? Would you have said something? What's your pet gym peeve? Anyone have any other bed-fart stories for me?? (I'm puerile. Duly noted.)

Strangers Will Tell You You're Fat But Your Friends Won't

A waitress friend of mine recently snapped a pic of an overweight patron's meal. Why? So she could text it to several of her friends. Sure her customer's meal was appalling - One of every appetizer? Yes, please - but even more so was the realization that now, more than ever, eating is a spectator sport. People feel they not only have a right to see what other people are eating but also to pass judgment on it.

I blame the media for this. Or at least for beginning the trend with shows like the Biggest Loser that have cameras recording participants' every bite and advertising that relies on monitoring a person's food intake to sell their product a la Jared the Subway Guy. Speaking of The Biggest Loser and Jared, have you seen what's happened to them lately? Many of the finalists and winners of the former and Jared of the latter have been in the news lately for doing what most people having lost weight on a diet do: they regained it. Ryan Benson, Kai Hibbard (this link is one of the most heart breaking weight loss/gain stories I've ever read - man I just want to meet her and hug her and then throw her scale off the nearest building) and, most famously, Erik Chopin have all regained most, if not all, of the weight they lost on the world's most famous diet show. Jared The Subway Guy has also recently regained some his famously lost weight. We won't even talk about the media hoopla surrounding Marie Osmond, Kirstie Alley, and the grand dame of weight loss struggles, Oprah.

I know all this because every weight blip is broadcast to an eager audience, one I am apparently a part of despite the fact that I have never seen even one episode of The Biggest Loser (culturally irrelevant, that's me!) and the last time I ate in a Subway was Homecoming dance my junior year of high school when I got food poisoning from old ham and spent the rest of the night upchucking in the E.R. Recently pics were snapped of Jared TSG looking a bit meatier and immediately the Examiner exclaimed, "We're sure Jared will lose the extra weight in no time. After all, his career as a Subway spokesperson depends on it." highlighting the fact that we have entered the era where losing weight is an official career choice. And a lucrative one.

So I suppose it isn't surprising that all this has filtered down to the common folk. The weird twist, however, is that while we feel (too?) comfortable commenting on a stranger's weight whether it be on TV or texting their menu choices to friends, many of us don't dare broach the subject with our friends. Perhaps we are afraid of offending people or losing a friendship but my personal theory is that people are already keenly aware of what they weigh and whether or not that is healthy for them and therefore do not need me to tell them about it.

And yet.

The other day I came home from the gym and noticed during my post-shower grooming ritual that mostly involves random tweezing and lotioning my brillo-bad kneecaps (they have actually ran my nylons - back in the days when I wore nylons. Which I don't now, but I digress.) a realllly long, dark hair on my jawline. It was so bad I should have been getting better radio reception everywhere I went. It was clearly visible and so embarrassing. My first thought was: why didn't the Gym Buddies tell me I was rocking a chin-stache??

My chin-stache gave me an A-Ha moment (paging Oprah!): I wish my weight weren't an issue at all - that nobody would notice it one way or the other - but since that is not the case (not for me, not for anyone) I would rather my friends talk to me about it than a stranger.

Which would you prefer - strangers commenting on your weight or a good friend? (Sadly, "nobody" is not an option.) Do you feel comfortable commenting on a strangers weight? Would you talk to a friend about hers or his? Is anyone else's worst nightmare having a waitress text pics of your cheat meal to all her friends???

Nothing Says Fun Like Getting Punched in the Face

Scientists may have had other ideas but I think the Internet was invented for the express purpose of circulating cultural memes. (Incidentally, that's pronounced "meem" not "me-me" like I've been saying for years. You're welcome; it is my calling in life to be a cautionary tale to others.) This is great when it comes to things like the Surprise Kitty:

Oh I know you've all seen it. But I can't help it - I lurve this kitteh! It makes me smile every.single.time.

Between all the fun shenanigans of "literal videos" and sharks with people teeth and Twilight Rifftrax (SO hilarious!), I sometimes forget all about the dark side. And then something like this comes around to remind me:


This clip, taken from Jersey Shore, some MTV reality show that I've never seen (not that I'm going to be all high and mighty about that because we both know if it were on during my a.m. treadmill time I'd totally watch it), shows a girl named Nicole Polizzi a.k.a. Snookie taking a closed-fist punch to the face from a man. The details are predictable, as MTV explains:

Polizzi, who suffered bruises and swelling as a result of the punch, said the clip is hard for her to watch, but that she's glad MTV is including it in the series.

"It should be out there. Everyone should know that it can happen," Polizzi told The News. "But also, a positive came out of it. It brought [the cast] closer together."

Polizzi says the man who hit her was drunk and had been bothering her and her friends at the bar. When she spoke up to ask him to leave, he hit her.

Another day, just another example of people being stupid, right? What bothers me about the clip - besides the obvious violence - is the reaction of people on the Internet. This clip spread like wildfire not out of moral outrage but rather from entertainment. People think this is funny.

Comments on various sites range from blaming her for being an annoying "guidette" (the female version of a guido, I'm assuming) to laughing at the way her head snaps back to a more chilling general hatred of women in general. One commenter named Cletus Van Damme (martial arts for rednecks?) writes:

Well chicks want equal everything so here ya go Snookie. Equal being what it is when dudes talk a bunch of sh- they have to back it up or get knocked the f- out. Welcome to being equal Snookie. I'm guessing I won't see you lined up to collect combat pay anytime soon.

But while Mr. Cletus is no gentleman, he certainly wasn't the worst. In a weird twist, the men over at bodybuilding.com - a site that although heavy on the crap supplement ads has many great workouts, several that I've featured on this site - seem to have a particular love for this clip. 'Roid rage, perhaps? To a one, they all conclude that not only did Snookie deserve it and it was hilarious but also that they would still bang her and she should thank them for the privilege. Then the thread degenerates into a discussion of her imagined sexual proclivities.

It frightens me that this kind of thinking even exists much less gets written in a public forum. Violence has become one more currency in the world of entertainment and I find it chilling that it is taken so lightly. Consider all the appropriate uproar a few months ago over Chris Brown's beatdown of Rihanna. But what has happened since then? Chris Brown and his ridiculous bow-tie went on Larry King Live and stumbled through a confused apology - pretty much what I would expect from a celeb in his situation - but Rihanna has come out with a new single. Go girlfriend! Show the man he can't keep you down! Show the world that you're strong and resilient and you're not going to take any crap from a man! Oh wait, her new song "Russian Roulette" is about how she gets talked into holding a loaded gun to her head and pulling the trigger by a man she's in love with. Part of the lyrics say:

As my life flashes before my eyes
I'm wondering will I ever see another sunrise?
So many won't get the chance to say goodbye
But it's too late to think of the value of my life
...
I'm terrified but I'm not leaving
Know that I must pass this test
So just go on and pull the trigger

Um, excuse me?! It's too late to think of the value of your life? As long as you are still alive it is never too late! Especially when you are the one holding the gun to your own head! Not to mention she appears on the cover naked and tied up with barbed wire. I don't want to judge her but glamorizing violence against women hardly seems appropriate.

Set me straight: is watching Snookie get cold cocked funny? Is there any context in which that would be called for? Am I missing the subtle subtext of Rihanna's new song? And what is with sexualizing violence against women?

Can You Judge a Skinny Girl By Her Picture?

image source

BIG SOULLESS MEDIA takes on TINY BUT MORAL BLOGGER! It's the stuff movies are made of! No? Ok, so I don't really watch movies but it's a story we're all familiar with and if you are a blogger yourself, you probably already know where this is going. There has been a bit of a legal kerfuffle going on behind the scenes here at The Great Fitness Experiment. You wouldn't know it unless you are a reader unfortunate enough to have subscribed to the comments of the afflicted post and/or you have ended up on the receiving end of one of my tirade-ish e-mails.

Why have no less than four lawyers been sic'ed on me over the past year? I published pictures of ultra-thin models and dared to say the images promoted disordered eating.

The post, called Functional Anorexia, was written over a year ago about the prevalence of women lauded in our society for living an eating disordered lifestyle but managing to stay just this side of living. It's Tori Spelling quibbling with Star magazine about her low weight ("Tori is a shocking 95 lbs!" "No, I'm not! I'm a whole 107!") never mind that either weight for her is considered underweight and unhealthy. It's every starlet who says they're just born thin when actually they live on Scotch and Swedish fish. And it's every model wallpapered in the background of almost every magazine, television shows, ad campaign and website targeted to women.

You know the models I'm talking about - they're not famous enough, or well-paid enough, to actually have names. More often than not they're just underage waifs from poverty stricken countries who are chosen for their coltish limbs and familiarity with malnourishment. Too frequently they are sexually, physically and economically abused by their handlers. There is a reason this aesthetic is sometimes called "Auschwitz chic." It is a lifestyle that hurts everyone involved. We see the pictures of them and feel badly about ourselves, internalizing the thin-at-all-costs mentality. They become fodder in a fashion machine that chews them up and spits them out with nothing to show for it but debt and a chemical dependency. To say these images do not promote an unhealthy lifestyle is using the OJ Simpson defense logic: perhaps we can't say with 100% certainty that OJ killed Nicole (or that seeing anorexic looking women promotes anorexia) but everyone knows it's true anyways.

Not the lawyers though. If you read my original post when it first ran, you might remember the pictures I used to illustrate the article. Stark black-and-white portraits of young girls so thin they looked like walking anatomy charts, all being aggressively promoted by the same Mega Huge Modeling Agency. For weeks the only people I heard from on the topic were readers - in fact, it became one of my most-read posts ever, even being featured on the Chicago Times and USA Today websites. The popularity began the problem.

Over the ensuing months, I have received e-mails promising a lawsuit from the lawyers of every one of the models I featured, save one. The lawyers allege that my article says their client has an eating disorder which, they claim, she certainly does not and also (you know if perchance she did) that kind of defamation could hurt her career. They demanded I pull the pics and as you can see on the post I obliged. While grovelling my apologies. Because I totally don't want to be sued. (Seriously, if they garnered all the profits I made from this website for the entire 2 years it's been running they wouldn't even be able to get whip on their Starbucks hot cocoa.)

Here's the thing though: I never said those particular models had an eating disorder - I don't know them from Barbie - I only said that use of those types of images promote an eating disordered lifestyle. Which I still firmly believe.

The Big Media won. I was censored. My point was buried under their legalese. And yet, there is a strange ending to this story: a few weeks ago I received one of the most plaintive e-mails I have ever gotten. It was from one of the models herself. Her English was very poor and the IP address was from Budapest but she managed to express herself very poignantly. She plead that I remove not only her pictures from my site (which I had already done after her lawyer had threatened me in 3 different languages) but to remove her name as well. Because, she wrote, she desperately needed the work. Her whole family depended on her earnings and she was so new to modeling she just couldn't take the risk of missing a job because of this.

While I hated her lawyer - and all the lawyers - with their scare tactics, her e-mail went straight to my heart. How could I deny another woman, another sister, the chance to work and support her loved ones? Even if her job hurts us all? I read somewhere that the only professions where women, as a rule, make more than men are modeling, stripping and prostitution.

People think women are just vain to worry so much about their looks. Turns out that maybe we're just pragmatic.

So, what do you think? Did I slander these girls? Do super skinny models, whether or not they are eating disordered themselves, promote eating disorders? Did I cross a line? There is exactly one picture left on my original post. I urge you to look at it before you answer.

Halloween Candy: To Give or Not to Give?

I am the official Halloween Grinch. Mostly it stems from a hatred of all things scary and icky. My theory is that between Iran's second nuclear facility and OJ Simpson still roaming free there is plenty frightening stuff in the real world stuff. Roman Polanski apologists, anyone? (Off topic but you really have to click thru that link and watch the video. Hilarious!) My point: I don't need a horror flick to make me pee my pants; I can do that just fine on my own. Although a trampoline helps.

Haunted houses, being the worst combination of scary and icky, are the bane of my existence. I haven't been in one since I was twelve and was chased by a guy in a Forever 21 S&M bondage suit with a glow-in-the-dark whip. Being still in my pre-Rave days, I kicked him in his magic 8 ball(s), ran out and have never been back since. One of the most ill-advised dates I ever went on involved me hiding under a blanket during the entire hour and a half it took whats-their-names (oops, spoiler alert!) to kill everyone in that stupid house in Scream. (A garage door? Seriously?? Where did these people get that door from because mine would go off its tracks if a mouse jumped on it much less an idiotic cheerleader.) I cried. Needless to say that guy never asked me out again.

Gummy eyeballs, spaghetti brains, slutty costumes, zombies, fright nights, faux front-yard cemeteries and yes, even sparkly vampires: I hate it all. Except for one thing. Twee little children dressed up in costumes going door to door and holding out plastic pumpkins with their dimpled fists. I adore trick-or-treaters. I only have two rules: they can't be old enough to grow real stubble for their hobo costume and also, they have to have a costume. As long as they meet those two criteria, I will pour sugared confections into their buckets all night long whilst cooing momisms like "Aren't you just the prettiest little princess EVER?!?"



Lately however I've been having a crisis of conscience. With the obesity crisis growing (or at least the media coverage of it) and a child culture that is already inundated with treat-giving occasions, is it in the little Tinkerbells' and Pirates' best interests to hand out Pixi Stix, which if you really think about it are just straight sugar packed in a tube so you don't even have to bother chewing it?

If you've been in a grocery store lately you will note that alongside the 5,000 different bags of candy lining the shelves there are a few non-food options. Like really expensive stuffed animals, marginally expensive Play-Doh tubs and cheap pencil erasers. But what kid wants a pencil eraser at Halloween? At least when dentists give out toothbrushes its something that has a real use. Those "erasers" don't even erase! They just crumble! So every year I've just gone with the candy and tried not to wince when my own children came home with bags so full they break and then collapse on their loot an hour later in a candy coma.


This year my friend Beth - uber-resourceful mother of 5 - pointed out another option to me: the Oriental Trading catalog. This paean to cheap plastic wonders that many already know and love for their 6$ coconut bras has a wide selection of candy alternatives that make even my frugal heart sing. My favorites were the glow-in-the-dark and glittery tattoos but they also have neon bouncy balls, rubber snakes and lizards and those nifty finger traps that we always called Chinese handcuffs when I was growing up because we were un-PC like that.

I asked my kids if it was a lame idea and they loved it - so long as I got at least a few gummy eyeballs. So what's your opinion on dealing sugar crack to kids for a night? Am I making too big a deal out of "just one night so let them be kids already durnnit"? What are you planning on giving out this year?

Can You Spot the real Fitness Expert? (Hint: It's not me.)

Several months ago I was contacted by a popular men's health magazine by a journalist writing an article about how to pick a good personal trainer. Having known and worked (both out and with) many of them, I was happy to share my top tips. Imagine my surprise when the magazine came out and I was identified as a "fitness expert." I almost shat myself. While I could be considered an expert in some fields - toddler toy mediation comes to mind - in fitness I am about as non-expert as they come. Dr. J, an experienced and credentialed surgeon and bona fide health expert, reminded me of this tendency of both the media and shameless (or shady) self-promoters to crown dubious health and fitness "experts" in his recent post on the subject.

Gym Buddy Leila found this out the hard way. Awhile ago as I was recovering from a tough weight session (read: gabbing about Kate Gosselin and if she would really take Jon back like we were 14 years old and she was the homecoming queen) we spotted Leila jogging sluggishly by, as if she were in slow motion.

"Leila!" we called out, "Whatcha doing girl? Get over here!"

"Can't," she shook her head sadly, "I'm burning fat."

"She obviously means with a lighter and a grill somewhere," muttered the peanut gallery.

"Seriously, my trainer told me that my fat burning zone is under 120. I gotta keep going for two hours if I want to lose this baby weight."

"120! Are you kidding me?"

"Well, look at him!" All eyes turned to Dirk, a string bean of a man with Popeye biceps and an overly hopeful "muscle" shirt. "He's the expert on losing weight!" And she was gone.

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Experts
Several weeks later I caught up with Leila. "How's it going with Dirk?" She burst into tears, "I've gained 12 pounds. I just don't get it! I mean, he's so thin! Why isn't it working for me?"

If you hang around any nutrition or fitness circles (or even your local Barnes & Noble) for long, you will soon discover that Televangelists got nothing on the diet/weight/muscle "expert" du jour. These people stalk you with aggressive websites - with LOTS and LOTS of bold CAPS and unnecessary white space. They smother you with e-books and print books and booklets, all with tantalizing ultimate-secret-of-everything-"they"-don't-want-you-to-know titles. They titillate you with ads on every site you read, populated with the evil spawn of Photoshop and CGI. They even find you in your safe place, blanketing your gym with fliers and business cards.

And everyone's an expert.

Why do we even listen to these people? And how do you tell the good ones from the bad ones?

In My Expert Opinion
If, for a moment, you will let me be the expert on experts, I will answer those questions for you. You see, I am a Recovering Expert. There are no 12-steps for this but there should be. (Think of it, mandatory humility counseling! The UN would never be the same.) A few years ago, when I finally decided to get serious about my health & fitness, I read everything I could get my hands on on the subject. I subscribed to all the magazines, the news feeds, the hyped and hyper e-mail lists. I read the books, the e-books, the booklets & wannabe books. And then, one fine day, I figured it all out.

I won't bore you with the details. You've heard them all before. But it was The Magic Formula. I would never worry about my weight again. I would be forever toned with smooth skin and lustrous hair. And I felt like I had to tell everyone I knew about it so they too could be toned and lustrous and smooth. My sister said, after one glorious (and free, even!) unsolicited tutorial, "It's like you found religion. Except more annoying."

It was a nice dream. Too bad it didn't last. One day it just stopped working and I was forced to realize that I didn't know it all. My Magic Formula was a great start but that my body, being smart and very adaptable, was on to my gig. It was time to tweak my formula.

So why do we listen to, seek out, and especially pay for expert guidance? A little bit of ignorance (most of us aren't personally-trained Personal Trainers). A lot of desperation. After all, if everything you've tried isn't working, then surely someone else must know something. I was desperate. I'd had great success - up to a point. I wanted more! I joined chat rooms & bulletin boards about weight lifting & nutrition. I took classes. But the more I studied, the more confused I became.
-Cut calories! But not too many or your metabolism will nosedive!!
-Carbs are evil! Whole grains are the staff of life! For a while I was actually trying to be a non-carb eating vegetarian. Do you know what that left me (besides cranky)? Veggies and... nuts. That's it. Congratulations, I'm a squirrel.
- Weight lifting is the key to a high metabolism! No, wait, cardio is the secret to fat loss!
It all made my head spin. You know the feeling.

I learned very quickly that once somebody finds something that works for them, they automatically assume it will work for everyone else too (like stick-bug Dirk and post-partum Leila). The only thing you can trust about an expert is that they passionately believe that they have the answers. So I did what any scientist would do: I started experimenting. And that's how I've spent the past several years.

Don't get me wrong, experts have their place. The good ones anyhow - there are some very smart and talented people out there. But you sure have to sift through a lot of toddler poop to find that shiny penny. Here are a few of my (non-expert) tips:

1. Look for someone who agrees with basic common sense. It is true that taking out processed crap foods and getting a little exercise will help everyone. So if the expert tells you you can eat cookies all day long and get your exercise via surrogate by watching The Biggest Loser, then you can bet they are selling you something. (Jillian's new diet pills, anyone?)

2. Look for someone who isn't just in it for the money. Sure people gotta make a buck; I'm not going to begrudge them their hard-earned money. But if they want your credit card number before showing you anything of substance then run fast and far (hey, that's good exercise too!). I'm especially wary of the ones hawking "product": special machines, shakes, pills, supplements, gadgets, teas and other proprietary-buy-it-now-before-I-run-out-forever stuff.

3. Look for someone who will personalize it to you. While every body will respond to basic nutrition and fitness, after that the tweaks are individual. If they say they can make you look just like them be very wary. Find someone who says they can make you look like you - just better.

4. Look for someone who ISN'T touting a "secret" or the "ultimate solution" or "the last diet you'll ever need." There just isn't any magic formula. Your body is always changing and adapting and so you're going to have to too.

Well, that's my (ahem) expert opinion. What say all of you? Did I miss anything? Anyone else have a run in with an Expert you'd like to add to the hall of shame?

Sports: Do You Play to Win?

Well that's a bummer.

The leaves changing color, the nip in the air, the never ending back-to-school nights with their ten-page supply lists are all signs of the season change, sure, but nothing announces the advent of fall in suburbia like the pitter-patter of little soccer cleats across a field. (That would be football for everyone outside the States. It was probably unnecessary to clarify that but I have one surprisingly dedicated reader in Singapore and I'll be rather disappointed if I ever lose them.)

Raise your hand if you played soccer as a kid. I imagine that includes everyone. Tying on your shin guards and wrestling those tube socks up over your knees is a right of passage for children everywhere. But so is something else: getting your butt kicked. In fact, if you were me, that was pretty much all soccer entailed. (And softball and basketball and volleyball and football. True story: I was the only girl on my high school Powder Puff team to get not a single second of playing time in a game.)

These days things have changed. With the advent of non-competitive leagues and a general aura of Everyone's a Winner, kids spend a lot less time losing than I did. Many have griped about this, saying that we are coddling our kids and it makes them weaker, unable to handle real world defeat when it smacks them across the face in adulthood. But I, for one, actually find it refreshing. My childhood spent sucking at every conceivable group sport left me with a lifelong hatred of group sports that I have only been able to overcome in my late twenties. I'll admit it: I still get jittery playing something as simple as a pick-up game of frisbee.

The difference in these viewpoints is how you see the purpose of sports. Despite having a very competitive nature, the main purpose of sports for me is to exercise and to have fun. For many other people, however, it is to win. This has played out in an interesting fashion in my kids.

This fall the husband and I decided to enroll our two eldest boys in the city soccer league, non-competitive division. I figured they'd get some fresh air and learn about teamwork. If things went really well they might even learn the rules of the game - a feat I never accomplished in all my time on the field. This is exactly what my five-year-old got. His team has no goalie and players routinely put themselves on the sidelines when they'd rather play with their dinosaurs than the other kids. Snack time is the highlight. They have lost every single game.

Compare that to my seven-year-old's team. Their coach and half their players are from the competitive league and apparently use the non-competitive league as a warm up for their season. They have assigned positions, complicated plays and drills that involve an amazing amount of coordination. Not only have they won every single game but my son came home this last time shouting, "We beat 'em 16 to 1! And that was only because Coach told us to let them get one in at the end!" Cue the sad violins for the opposing team.

As you would expect, this caused many tears from the five-year-old and hours of bragging from the seven-year-old (not that it takes much to induce either crying or bragging in our house these days). You'd think that this would be evidence to run the team in the latter manner. And yet, despite my older son's joy at winning - and I say this with great love - he's by far the worst player on his team. This has led his coach to say, within his hearing, "Only kick the ball to Andersen if he's the only person around and then stay right on it." You should have seen his big puppy eyes fill with tears when he asked me why no one would pass him the ball. He also only gets assigned to play one defensive position in the very back, where he never sees the ball much less touches it. The other parents whisper things like "state college" and "band scholarship" behind their hands and won't look me in the eyes.

Of course it all makes me very upset. Come on, that's what I do. The husband is more zen about the whole thing saying about both sons, "Eh, they're having fun. They're learning stuff." The tears that I see as heart-breaking he sees as character-building. It's not just our family that's divided on the group sports issue. When I posted on Facebook about how I'm not cut out to be a soccer mom (I believe I actually used the phrase "soccer sucks" 'cause I'm mature like that), I got an amazing array of responses - everything from total agreement to total disdain leading me to conclude that soccer, not Al Franken, is the great polarizing force in our generation.

So now I have to know your opinion! When you play sports, do you play to win? What is your philosophy about kids and sports? In the picture above, which guy is getting the worse end of the deal? Seriously, I've been looking at it for like 10 minutes and I still can't decide.

PS> Thank you so much to everyone who left me a comment on my Compulsive Pregnant Exerciser post - your kind comments, prayers and support got me through this weekend! I can't tell you all how much it means to me!!

The Fallacy of Normalcy

Puerile. That would be the best word to describe the radio show I sometimes listen to in the a.m. Most mornings I'm very grown-up with my NPR and my unsweetened oatmeal but occasionally a girl needs some good Hollywood gossip - complete with a quiz where they tazer the person on the butt if they get the answer wrong - to go with her Cap'n Crunch. (You know what's really awesome? Cap'n Crunch cooked in with Rice Krispie treats. Mmm... craving.) In addition to a self-deprecating lead male D.J. and a psychic who says things like, "I see an aura around you... There's going to be change coming in your life! You feel that warm feeling spreading down you? That means I'm right!" (What - change? In life?! No way. And I love how he describes psychic vibes in the same terms the rest of us use to discuss peeing our pants. Anyhow.), they also have a female co-host, Lena, who is spunky, funny, and adorable - albeit with a few cringeworthy girly-isms.

I blame the latter trait for her announcement the other morning, in typical girly fashion: "I need to lose weight! I'm going on South Beach." One of the premises of the whole morning show is how freaking hot this chick is so I went and looked her up. This is her hosting the New Kids on the Block at a recent Mall of America event:

What. A. Cow. Right? Ahem. If she needs to lose weight then somebody alert Cindy Crawford that she'd better join the Jenny Craig team. At first I thought she was just pulling the lame-but-oft-used pretty girl trick of whining about your weight to garner compliments but apparently she is serious as she and her co-hosts have been going on and on about how great she looks now that she's dropping pounds. Finally, after days of this, one of them asked, "So how much weight are you going to lose?"

Her reply? "Until people tell me I'm too skinny and they're worried about me."

The guy agreed with her, "Oh yeah, that's how you know when you're finally looking good - when people start pulling that 'I'm so worried about you' line." Then he summed up the popular opinion of the day, saying something along the lines of, "Normal sucks. Normal isn't gorgeous. You have to be super thin to look good." And the anorexic in me was screaming, "I knew it!!"

My husband will tell you that I'm notorious for missing when people are joking but I'm pretty sure these two were serious. Mostly because they are not the first people to say this. Normal is so last season - and it isn't just weight. Nobody wants to be described as "average" or "ordinary" or, heaven help you, "just fine." People would rather be anything but normal, no matter how awful the alternative - a fact that Tila Tequila has banked her entire career on.

But what is so wrong about normal? From a weight standpoint, normal is the best place to be. It is the very heavy and, oh yes, the very skinny who have the highest mortality rates. Unlike in fashion, if you are interested in good health, then there is such a thing as too skinny. From a life standpoint, while we laud the exceptional, normal has a lot to recommend it.

Recently I came across a story about Paige Epler, a thirteen-year-old at George Mason University who has the distinction of being the youngest person to earn a high school diploma. I am not impugning Ms. Epler's achievement but I do worry about a girl who not only graduates high school at 13 but speed-reads a book in 15 minutes, plays the violin so expertly that she was featured at a luncheon for President Obama, designed and implemented a shark exhibit for the Smithsonian and in all her free time plays "everything from Little League and soccer to karate and flag football, in which she is 'a really good quarterback.'"

Not knowing Paige at all, I can't speak to her mental health or how she's handling all of her success but if history is any guide, the world is not kind to grown-up child prodigies. What can you hope to accomplish at 30 when you set that kind of precedent at 13? As I discovered myself on a much smaller scale, no matter what you do, inevitably people will accuse you of not living up to your potential. Already there are people pointing out that while Epler may be the youngest person to graduate high school she is not the youngest to start college. See? Who does she think she is being all proud of graduating at 13 when March Tian Boedihardjo started University at 9 and Alia Sabur graduated from college at 14?

I'm not saying that people shouldn't be encouraged to maximize all their talents. Achievement is good but it's not everything. Rather, I'd like to see society encouraging people to be happy, to be healthy, to be kind to others. It took me a long time to notice because they are not often acclaimed but the happiest people I know are not those who are the skinniest or the smartest or the highest-paid or even the most talked about. But they are the wisest. Unfortunately normal doesn't sell magazines or up radio show ratings.

What makes you happiest? Anyone else cringe a little when people insist their child will read before Kindergarten or their 5-year-old will practice soccer for ten hours a day? How do you draw the line between "becoming your best self" (thank you Oprah) and just making yourself crazy?

Fit Pregnancy: Exercise in the Third Trimester

32 weeks today! Which means I have 8 weeks left. Unless good karma kicks in - I totally let two people go ahead of me in line at the grocery store as they had way less items than I did; I know, someone saint me - and then I could possibly pop this kid out in 6! I wanted to write something really happy and positive about how continuing to exercise through my whole pregnancy has made this last part a breeze and how I'm still glad I'm Turbokicking butt this late in the game. But. I'm fighting off my third seriously nasty head cold in 6 weeks (and no I don't think it's related to the flu shot I got a week ago but rather I have no immune system when I'm pregnant). I'm tired all the time. I have chronic heartburn.

And I feel huge. Not just huge. Whale-esque. I'm so big and uncomfortable that rolling to my other side at night is such a production that I actually have to wake up to do it and use my arms. The best part of this end stage of pregnancy is what Heidi Klum cutely terms the "exploding" part of pregnancy. She says,

"The last month is unbelievable, how rapidly your stomach goes. It’s huge. The thighs, the butt—everything explodes in the end. But it’s bizarre. Just as it’s a miracle that you can grow a human being in your belly, it’s a miracle that your body goes back to normal again. I don’t think you ever get back to exactly the way you were, but you do get close. And I’m happy with that. Especially when you see your kid for the first time.”

She's 100% correct. They say in the last month or so the baby gains 1/2 to 1 pound a week. You can imagine what that makes the mother gain. Of course she's also right about the miracle of birth and the baby being worth all the trouble. And I'm sure I'll remember that joy. In 6-8 weeks.

Oh right, I'm supposed to be telling you about exercise in the third trimester and not just whining? I'm going to be honest: it's hard. All the trimesters (I say that like there are more than three - whatever, it feels like forever at this point) have their own challenges. The first tri you don't need to make any physical modifications but the exhaustion and nausea certainly take a toll. The second tri you get some energy back but lose most ab work and cardio gets harder as the baby makes more of a demand on your cardiovascular system. The third tri, however, requires the most adjustments. You have to modify nearly every exercise you do.

Me, at 30 weeks.

Cardio
Walking up the stairs carrying a basket of laundry leaves me panting and so breathless I consider it my own version of the biathlon (you know, minus the rifles - although stranger things have happened in this house) so doing any actual aerobic exercise is quite the effort. I still do it but "low and slow" is my new mantra. While I do really enjoy the endorphin rush, it does hurt my pride to not be able to keep up as well in my favorite classes. If I push too hard I end up sacked out on the couch for the rest of the day - not really an option with other kids to care for and a job. Normally exercise gives me more energy but by the end of pregnancy I'm just so tired. The other thing - and I'm not sure at this point if it's a bonus or a problem - is that cardio gives me mad Braxton-Hicks contractions. Not contractions as in "my water's breaking, someone call an ambulance" but just uncomfortable tightenings that kinda take my breath away, not to mention my mind. (It was during one of these contractions that I forgot what I was doing and kicked Gym Buddy Dennis in Turbokick. Thankfully he was gracious enough to wave it off.)

Weights
Thanks to a little condition I like to call Hormone Hell, weight lifting has become its own challenge. The first issue is with the hormone aptly named relaxin. It's responsible for loosening up your ligaments and joints so that the baby can squeeze its huge noggin (like an orange on a toothpick!) through your narrow pelvis. Unfortunately it does its job so well that all your joints get loosey goosey thereby making you less stable and more prone to injury. I'm clumsy enough these days without adding 20-lb dumbbells to the mix!

The other hormone involved is our favorite girl estrogen. In your last trimester of pregnancy your estrogen levels are about 400 times higher than they are at any other time in your life. This megadose of estrogen not only makes it nearly impossible to build muscle (similar to the effect you see when you go on the pill but on a much bigger scale) but also makes it very difficult to maintain the muscle you have. What is estrogen good for? Why storing fat of course! And yes I know the fat is good for the baby - especially if you carry it in your thighs - but it's still frustrating to know that I'm losing muscle and gaining fat, pretty much the opposite of what every exercising woman is trying to do. The net result of all this hormone madness is that weight lifting feels a) really hard and b) futile. But I'm still doing that too - mostly in a last ditch effort to preserve some muscle mass. Plus I get to sit down a lot, something usually frowned upon in other forms of exercise.

Other Exercise
Even my beloved yoga is getting difficult. My gym doesn't offer special prenatal classes and so I just do the regular ones and modify the poses but it seems like I'm spending an inordinate amount of time in down dog these days.

So have I convinced you all to never have children? Or made you glad your husband got that vasectomy five years ago? Or just made you really glad you're a man? Then my work here is done.

Help Me To Love Swimming

What activity does every personal trainer tell you to do if you are injured/cross training/looking for a change up? Swimming. What activity does every pregnancy expert tell you is the best exercise for gestating moms? Swimming. What activity does my dear friend Dr. Jon - who is 70+ but looks like he's 40 and acts like he's 20 - swear by? Swimming (and some kind of crazy form of karate that I'm dying to try and yet also terrified of). And what have at least a dozen of you asked me at one point or another to do a Great Fitness Experiment on? Swimming.

I hate swimming.

Let's get one thing straight: being raised by parents who consider swimming a life skill and not optional, swim lessons were mandatory all the way up to high school. I can swim. I can freestyle, back stroke, breast stroke and - the one I hate the least - side stroke just fine. I just don't like to.

I know what you're thinking - Charlotte's body image issues rear their ugly head again! But, weirdly, that's not my problem. First of all pregnancy gives me a pass on having a flat stomach and secondly the only people who swim at my Y during the time I'm there are the elderly and tiny tots. I'm fine with the whole swimsuit-in-public thing. So what's my deal, then? Why aren't I hopping gleefully into the water and letting the buoyancy cradle my baby and my soul?

1. I hate being cold. I'm so intolerant of cold that it's become a running joke in our household. And to me anything short of a hot tub is considered cold. You know that feeling of first diving into a cold (okay, probably lukewarm) pool and slicing into the water? Some people love it. They think it's refreshing or something. I hate it. I'm immediately freezing and then I'm so grouchy about being cold that the first twenty minutes of my workout are ruined by my crabbiness. And then? Once I'm done I have to reverse the process by leaving the now-warm pool (no, I didn't pee in it) and facing the cold of the pool deck followed by the even colder locker room.

2. I hate being wet. I have really dry skin and the chlorine is like a chemical peel, especially on my face. I also just don't enjoy the sensation of water on my skin. It irritates me. I haven't taken a bath since I was 10 because I can't stand sitting in water.

3. I feel like I can't breathe. All pools have that layer of chlorinated warm moist air right above the water that unless you lift your head completely out of the water - like you are not supposed to unless you are a granny in a shower cap - you must inhale and exhale. I feel like I'm breathing through a damp rag.

4. I don't like wet hair. Confession time: I only wash my hair twice a week. Oh, I shower every day (except when I don't) but having very dry, very thin hair it actually works out better to not wash it every day. Honestly it styles better when it has 2-3 days of gym sweat build-up in it. When I do wash it, it's a pain to do. I do not have wash-n-wear hair. It doesn't dry straight or curly but must be coerced - with great heat - to do one or the other. However, if frizzy ever comes back in style I'm all set.

5. It's such a production. You have to remember your suit and your goggles and a towel and extra clothes and a blow dryer and lotion and shampoo and flip flops and your arm wings (kidding!). It takes forever to get in the pool and twice as long to get out. Not to mention that you have to shave places that in a month or two I won't even be able to see thanks to the belly. Why go through all that when you can just arrive and be sweating it out in a class (that doesn't require a bikini wax) within 5 minutes?

6. You can't talk. You guys know that my gym time is my social time. My head is a noisy place and scary things happen when I am left alone with it for too long. While you can swim with a friend, that's really in name only as you won't hear, see, or talk to them for the duration of your workout. I'm chatty; I'd miss my friends. Even if they were just in the next lane over.

7. I wear contacts. Without them I'm blind. (True story: when I was 16 I jumped on the back of a boy in the pool whom I thought was my brother - thanks to my seriously limited vision - only to realize my horrible mistake when he turned around with an indignant "Can I help you?") Swimming + contacts = all kinds of problems.

Now that I've thoroughly depressed you, you may be wondering why I unleashed this torrent of whine on you. Here's the thing: I want to want to swim. If that makes any sense. I want to like it! It's such a great workout and I need a change right now and, well, I'm pregnant! So I'm turning to you guys - I know tons of you love to swim. Tell me about it! Help me turn my frown upside down and belly flop gloriously into the pool!

What's great about swimming? Why do you like it? How have you overcome your challenges with swimming?

Tennis Officials Call Serena Williams Ugly, Send Her to Back Courts

Quick, name this profession: long, slim, toned bodies poured into tight fitting - but adorable! - clothing and jumping around in front of a bevy of overeager photographers, magazine editors, and camera crews. Oh yeah, and there's a lot of "grunting" involved (oh, the scandal!).

Did you say modeling? Actually, it's tennis.

With East European beauties such as Maria Sharapova, Anna Kournikova and Elena Dementieva ruling the press coverage of the sport, one would think they must also be ruling the courts. Not so, say many tennis insiders. Often the best courts and play slots (and hence the better media coverage) are given to the women who are better lookers rather than the ones who are better players. This is even true at the venerable Wimbeldon tournament where officials admitted last night to putting the prettiest female players on the famous center court even if that means relegating the uglier-but-higher-seeded women to the new auxiliary courts. Wimbeldon spokesman Johnny Perkins said unapologetically, "Good looks are a factor." Observe:

In center court we have seed No 59 Maria Kirilenko of Russia

The number 1 seed? You'll find Dinara Safina of Russia way over in court 2.

Back in the center court we have No 28 seed Sorana Cirstea of Romania

But where is the number 2 player? The U.S.'s own Serena Williams (edited from original text "Venus": I'm an idiot and can't tell my Williams sisters apart.) is back on court 2.

Never having played tennis outside some embarrassing weekend recreations that we won't discuss, I have no idea if being moved to another court or being told flat out by officials that you are homely would affect one's game. Venus and Serena Williams seem to be pretty indomitable despite being stuck out in the hinterlands (I know! They're gorgeous, right?) but if it were me, I think it would mess with my head and probably my game too.

On the flip side, it also makes me wonder if the "pretty" center court girls worry more about which custom Nike tennis dress they will be wearing than if their backhand is stellar. Or, even worse, that they might avoid lifting weights or training hard because they don't want to "bulk up" and look more like the muscular athletes they are than catwalk models.

Of course no similar trend has been noticed among the men. Apparently the tennis officials are just giving the people want they want - and they think we would rather see pretty-but-weaker-players rather than the strong athletes that would show the best athletic competitions.

The question is, are they right? Do you watch tennis for the cute miniskirts and pom-pom socks? (And if so, you've heard of competitive cheerleading, right?) Any of you out there tennis players? Is an overemphasis on looks, like found in ballet and gymnastics, a big part of tennis?

What's In Your Water Bottle?

I got an interesting e-mail about a week ago from "Tammy". She started off good, telling me how funny I am and how much she loves my blog (flattery will get you everywhere with me) but then took a sharp turn off into Marketing LaLa land. You might recognize this place - land of fabled 6' 120 lb supermodels who eat cheeseburgers instead of salads & drink vodka at 9 am in the pool while the rest of us are working & then walk their dogs if they get to feeling a little puffy. If there are any children present, and there rarely are which is in itself odd considering how much simulated sex is going on, they are motionless mannequins wearing coordinating stainless outfits (top H&M $16.99, skirt Prada Jr. $1,345.99) ignored by a person who looks too young to actually be their parent. Sound familiar? Yeah. We'd all like to live there.

And according to Tammy, Propel Fitness Water might just be your one-way ticket to Shangri-La. To be fair to Tammy, whom I have never met and for all I know is a perfectly lovely gal that shares my taste in too-bright purses and obscenely high-heeled shoes, she was not that heavy handed. Her segue was actually quite good: "With me, I try not to deprive myself of the occasional treat - it's all about portion control and reading the nutrition labels carefully. That said, I wanted to share with you and your community some interesting information regarding the range of calories found in many vitamin enhanced waters." See? Straight from my "You're An Idiot" Diet post to Propel. Bravo.

I totally agree with her thus far. I read nutrition labels like they're The Da Vinci code of nutrition. And I also know some interesting information about calories in water: I don't like them. Water should not have calories. If it has calories then it is officially not water.

Tammy continues on to extol the virtues of low-cal Propel and to "shock" me with how many calories Vitamin Water has. Here's my shocker Tammy - I take my water straight up, on the rocks. Occasionally, if I'm feeling Carmen Miranda-ish, I'll whip a lime out of my hat and magically slice it before it drops into my glass.

Which isn't to say that I don't enjoy an occasional sugared-up beverage. I adore a virgin margarita (it's a lime thing) or an Italian soda. But the difference is that a) these drinks are an indulgence and b) they all contain actual sugar rather than some artificial sweetener or the granddaddy evil of fat-kids-with-no-heads-in-cnn-pictures - high fructose corn syrup.

Rad! Oh, wait. What?!?

Sweeteners
I love sweet stuff. A good hit of jelly beans or Ben & Jerry's can make a warm breeze blow even when there's two feet of snow. But I do not like man-made sweet stuff. I think that they play with our minds and mess with our innards until we don't properly know when we're sated and we're about to become the next headless-fat-person-in-a-picture. (Seriously, why CNN? It's dehumanizing. Stop it.)

So I kindly wrote back to Tammy and asked her if the magic to keeping Propel so light in calories and yet so "full of flavor" is an artificial sweetener. She e-mailed me the nutrition label. It would be Splenda. Splenda gives me headaches. According to some people, Splenda might also be the end of the free world. Your call.

At any rate, artificial sweeteners do not help you lose weight. If you just like the zingy aftertaste of aspartame then feel free to stick with your Diet Coke but if you drink it (or eat practically any "light" product) to help your waistline, you may be doing yourself more harm than good.

Fitness Water
Aside from the sweetener problem, I take issue with something being labeled a "fitness water." Fitness water is plain H20. I do understand that in some cases it is necessary and even performance enhancing to take in a simple carb drink/gu/gel/etc. during exercise. Long distance runners mainline the stuff. And it helps. But Splenda isn't a simple carb. It's not even found in nature. Marketers of these products (not just Propel but all the "fitness" drinks) lose me when they try to sell it as a need, rather than a want. With the exception of a long endurance workout or race, you never need anything other than water.

I get that people think water tastes plain. We like our fruity flavors. So just use fruit. Or if you must, use sugar. But don't tell me my body needs any of that stuff. Even for my post-workout snack, I'd rather eat whole foods than any specially formulated drink.

How You Lost Out on Free Stuff
(although you can still enter this giveaway until Sunday!)
Tammy then concluded by asking me to advertise her product on my site. She even dangled the possibility of freebies - powder packets all around! (No, don't snort it! Drink it!) But I can't endorse it. (Although I just did give them some free publicity - you're welcome Tammy! Call me if you want to go shoe shopping.)

I don't like it. I don't think it is good for me. I don't think it will help my fitness goals.

But that's my rant. I want to know what's in your sports bottle. Besides mold - really, you should wash that thing every once in a while. Do you guys swear by any sports drink? Do you flavor your water at all? Are you a bottled guy/gal or does tap water reign supreme? (Personally, my fave is the drugged out tap water. There's one way to cut down on medical costs!) Because I actually am deeply curious as to what you drink when you work out, I've provided you with a poll (feel free to use the comments to explain yourself):

poll by twiigs.com

The Glamorous Rape

Rope burns circled her wrists, her fingernails were bloody and torn and she had a deep purple bruise on one forearm that inappropriately made me think of hoagie sandwiches, such was its size and shape. But what was most haunting were her eyes. They were not bright with tears, nor flashing with anger, nor did they even show animal fear - they were just still. And dead. Those dead eyes would haunt me for months afterward.

I was a new "peer counselor," an internship I did my junior year of college to fulfill the requirement for my Psychology degree, and even though I had been trained in dealing with suicide threats, eating disorders, depression and even rape, I was not prepared for what happened at that frat house that winter night. Having got the call after the police had untied her from the bed, I missed the most horrific part of her gang rape but once her statement was filed they handed her unceremoniously over to me. My job was merely to be there. Be there with her while they did the rape kit - surprisingly not as neat and orderly as one might think after hearing about them on T.V. (for one thing, there is no actual "kit"). Be there while she peed in a cup to check for evidence of roofies. Be there while she tried to call her mom in another state only to get no answer at one o'clock in the morning. Be there while they gave her antibiotics, a million different shots and then the morning after pill (pills actually, there were two of them). And then to just be there while she suffered for hours through the effects of the benignly misnamed pill.

I sat with her all night as she shook and sweated and threw up. We didn't talk much. At last, desperate to say something, say anything to break the quiet that screamed in my head, I pointed at the oddly shaped bruise on her arm. I'd never seen a bruise that looked that awful. "How did that happen?"

Staring back at me with those dead eyes she answered shakily, "I don't know." And then burst into hysterical tears. As did I. Even though this was a couple of years before my own sexual assault, I cried too. There was no other response.

After she finally fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning, I became aware of a shadow in the doorway. I recognized the boy. He was from the frat house. Standing quickly, I pushed him out of the room. "Are you crazy?" was all I could think to say.

He looked drunk still. "I just... wanted to see if she was okay."

The gall. I couldn't process it. "You guys almost killed her."

"It wasn't supposed to go down like that. I didn't think..."

"Leave," I demanded, not willing to be party to whatever rationalizations his inebriated brain was going to manufacture. For a split second, his eyes flashed and I saw anger. I thought he might push past me to get to her. Or perhaps even hit me. "Now. Or I'll call the police," I added with confidence I didn't have.

"F*** you," he muttered at last, dismissing me with a wave. As he stumbled down the hallway he added over his shoulder, "Tell her to give me a call."

The Glamorous Rape
I tell you this story to show you exactly how unglamorous rape is. Whether it is a tied-to-the-bed knock-her-unconscious atrocity like the one just detailed or merely a silent, stealthy minimally violent assault like mine, rape is vicious, cruel, painful and damaging.

I shouldn't have to explain this to you.

And yet I feel compelled to because thanks to examples ranging from the mostly innocuous Edward "Do I kiss you or kill you?" Cullen in Twilight, to the twisted media coverage of the Chris Brown-Rihanna debacle to the galling rape-fantasty video game genre, the media is selling us an image of rape and domestic violence as being artistic, dramatic, the result of misguided love and - most terrifying - wanted.

The latest incarnation of this is Lady Gaga's new art flick/music video for her single "Paparazzi." (I have no desire to post it here but if you're curious, YouTube has the full vid.) In this slickly designed and beautifully executed film short - the costumes! the scenery! the sets! the glorious backup dancers!! - Lady Gaga (playing herself, per her usual) is used and abused by her lover who eventually throws her over a balcony. The fall doesn't kill her but rather maims her. So far, so much another tragic romance but Lady G then uses this opportunity to break out the bedazzled neck brace, gold encrusted crutches and - most fabulously - a Louis Vitton wheelchair with Chanel embellished wheels. Her fame skyrockets as the sympathetic public lauds her escape with their money. Interspersed between shots are quick flashes of women not as lucky as Lady Gaga - women with bullet holes in their foreheads or blood trickling out of their mouths, all obviously dead. In the end, not only does she turn the tables on her model man, but she kills him, an ending that I'm guessing is supposed to make us feel that justice has been served.

And yet I found the whole thing so repulsive I couldn't even finish watching the video despite "Paparrazi" being my favorite song of hers and despite having seen her in concert and loved it. I had to read about the ending on a spoiler site. Sure some will say it is an overwrought satire or mere frothy fun meant to be empowering if anything but the images of dead women - only young, beautiful ones of course - used in such a manner strikes me as well, commercial. It has also been suggested that being a woman, Lady Gaga be given a pass. Of course this would be offensive if a man made it, the reasoning goes, but because a woman did it it shows that she's facing one of female kind's greatest fears and vulnerabilities. I say she's capitalizing on them.

I've been accused in the past of being overly sensitive to these issues because of my own history but in a country where 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime and where Jamie Leigh Jones has to sue for the right to sue the men who raped her so badly that she's permanently scarred - shouldn't we all be overly sensitive to these issues? Or at the very least, not treat rape like a party trick that one bounds back from in guilded couture?