Calm TF Down Keira….

“Its all about perfection, isn’t it?” ~Keira Knightley

Earlier this week, while perusing the internet in search of news that didn’t suck, I came across an article about a series of essays written for a book called, Feminists Don’t Wear Pink (And Other Lies).

The book is a compilation of pieces written by a variety of women, from teenage activists to actresses; among them, Keira Knightley….I assume best known for her role in the Pirates of the Caribbean films.

The essay written by Keira is called “The Weaker Sex.”  In it, Keira writes about her own experience with childbirth and then goes on to crap all over Kate Middleton.

In a book about feminism….

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When describing her own experiences with child birth, Keira writes about her vagina splitting open and her daughter being handed to her covered in blood and vernix and all the screaming, followed by the all the feeding and the shit and the vomit, etc., etc.

Now, I was diagnosed with cancer when I was 22 weeks pregnant.  My water broke at home six weeks before my due date and I arrived at the hospital wearing a Spiderman night time diaper that belonged to my step-daughter (she didn’t do princesses).

Because I was on a blood thinner as a result of clotting in my subclavian vein that had been caused by the ginormous mass that had taken up residence in my chest, I wasn’t able to get an epidural until the medication was no longer in my system; unless I wanted a spinal hematoma and I don’t know, that didn’t sound fun.  Not that my doctors were willing to take the risk anyway.

“No problem!”  Everyone told me.  “This is your first, it always takes awhile with your first.  You’ll have plenty of time for the feel good stuff before you have to start to push.”

Except, my son had other ideas.  He was ready and I had no choice but to push him out au natural.  At one point, I heard a loud popping sound and I asked, “What was that?”  

It was my tailbone….cracking.

So yeah, I get it, having a baby isn’t easy and I thought, Right on, sister.  I hear ya. 

But then, Keira started writing about Kate.  Now, let me first say this.  This isn’t a love letter to the monarchy.  I don’t get the whole British Monarchy thing.  What’s the point of being the Queen of England, if Queen Elizabeth can’t demand, “Off with her head!”  when it comes to Meghan Markle’s half-sister who won’t shut up.

Still, for whatever reason….I’m sure there is one….the monarchy is still a thing and the entire planet is apparently fascinated by the British Royal family.

These people can’t even fart without someone being around to exploit audio of it.  Their facial expressions, clothing choices, romantic relationships, family squabbles, funerals, weddings, child births, manicures, pedicures (or lack there of), are dissected and reported on daily.

So it seemed an odd sort comparison for Keira to make when, after describing her own childbirth, she segued (I had no idea that was how that word is actually spelled) to Kates.

Sure, they are both famous.

But, c’mon.

There is famous and then there is, if you so much as sneeze and a booger flies out, the entire world is going to see it….in high definition and with incredible detail….famous.

About Kate, Keira writes, “We stand and watch the TV screen. She [Kate] was out of hospital seven hours later with her face made up and high heels on. The face the world wants to see.”

Ok, yes, this happened.  Kate gave birth and then she exited the hospital, seven hours later, and she looked great.  But it’s not as though the birth didn’t happen, or that the experience of Kates labor and delivery was not every bit as emotional and raw as it is for any other woman.

And quite frankly, I think Kate got the shit end of the stick in a lot of ways.

Maybe she would have liked to have remained in the hospital for a few days post birth to rest and bond with her newborn.  But for every day she remained, I guarantee the throngs of reporters and “fans” waiting to catch a glimpse of her and the baby, would not have lessened.

Maybe she chose to leave when she did, because in doing so, it would eliminate the crowds gathered around the hospital as quickly as possible; allowing other mothers to  make their way to the hospital, settle in and have their loved ones come to visit without the crowds and the noise and the chaos encircling it.

And if she hadn’t, she would have been ripped to shreds for being selfish and self-centered.  Damned if you, damned it you don’t.

Keira goes on to write, “Hide. Hide our pain, our bodies splitting, our breasts leaking, our hormones raging. Look beautiful. Look stylish, don’t show your battleground, Kate. Seven hours after your fight with life and death, seven hours after your body breaks open, and bloody, screaming life comes out. Don’t show. Don’t tell. Stand there with your girl and be shot by a pack of male photographers.”

Um, how should she have exited the hospital?   In a pair of sweat pants, or hospital scrubs with her breasts leaking milk?

Why should she be called upon, postpartum, to expose that part of herself, so intimately private, as a fuck you to the patriarchy?  I’m sorry, but that’s bull shit.

So, Kate put on a nice dress and she looked beautiful and she stood on the steps of that hospital for a moment, approximately one minute and thirty-seconds (I looked it up) and she gave what the world was going to take from her regardless.  But she chose to control the ONE thing she could in that moment; her appearance.  Christ, give the woman a break.

And yes, it’s not a realistic portrayal of what its like for the everywoman, but HELLO! Nothing about her life is what its like for the everywoman.

She is referred to as “Her Royal Highness” without a trace of snark.  She has castles….plural.  She wears tiaras, and not the kind you buy at Party City for a Bachelorette Party.  One day, she’ll be the Queen of England.

The average woman, relates to none of that.  In fact, the average woman doesn’t exactly related to Keira Knightley either.

Want to know how many times I’ve been airbrushed on the cover of a magazine, in a leather blazer and underwear, three months after giving birth?  Zero.  Zero times.  I’ve never even been asked, if you can believe it.

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Cover of Elle Magazine….the Pot Calling the Kettle Black

Sorry, sweetie, but you can’t call out one woman for acting out the same play you are, only on a bigger stage, and call it feminism.

 

This Beach Body Runs on Taco’s….

“Here at Globo Gym we’re better than you.  And we know it.”
~
White Goodman, Dodgeball

After my lay-off, my first order of unemployed business, was to cryptically post my change of employment status across my social media accounts.

This, so that all of the people I don’t actually keep in touch with, could shower me with attention in the form of, “What happened!?” and “Are you going to be OK?”….because I didn’t get enough attention as a child, that’s why.

I’ll admit, I was genuinely touched by the number of people who offered to put me in touch with someone they knew who was hiring.

And, I was flattered when I began receiving regular phone calls and messages from hiring managers who said, “I see that you’re now available and I’d love to talk to you about an exciting opportunity at my company.”  As though they had just been waiting for me, which was crap, but still, I ate that shit up.  It’s nice to be wanted.

Of course, I then had to come clean and explain that I wasn’t actually looking for work.  That I had other plans.  To which they responded with, “Ok, deadbeat.”

Actually, no one said that, but it’s what I would have said.

After about a month or so, most of the calls and condolences dried up and I was busy moving on with my life.

Then, I got a message from an old high school acquaintance, via FB Messenger.  It started out with, Hey girly!

Important side-note here.  The only person who should address me with a “Hey girly” is a shirtless Ryan Gosling.  He should be holding a skinny vanilla late and asking if I’d like to watch The Notebook.  End, side-note.

Anyway, here’s the message:

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By “page,” I can only assume she meant my Facebook page.  So, I immediately went there to scrub out whatever might have led her to believe that I would be interested in being an online health and fitness coach.

Here’s the thing, I love to work out.  A few years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio after spending years joining traditional gyms where I spent my time trying to look like I knew how to use the equipment, while trying to dodge the hardcore sales tactics of gym employees, while also trying not to lose a finger in all the gym equipment I didn’t know how to use.

I would go faithfully for approximately one month.  Then, I would stop going, but continue to pay for my membership for at least a year before working up the guts to face the fifth layer of hell.  Also known as….trying to cancel your gym membership.

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Then, I got cancer and I had a baby….all at the same time….and I decided that my fitness goals were all wrong.  For years, I had been studying the body parts of other women and wishing I could make them mine.

Come on fitness equipment machine!  Give me JLo’s ass and abs….Jennifer Anniston’s arms….legs like Carrie Underwood! 

And of course, it never worked.

So, after life smacked me in the face, I decided I should be grateful I still had a living body and perhaps I should just learn to work with it.  I found my current gym and I love it.  It’s small, with a variety of classes and a body positive message and I’ve seen great results.

I’ll never have a six-pack, because I refuse to make the dietary sacrifices it would require, but I’m fit and in far better shape at 38, than I ever was in my 20’s.  Of course, in my 20’s, I lived off Ramen Noodles and the occasional, post closing time trip to Taco Bell, so….

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My point….I love to work out, but a scroll through my Facebook page would lead most to believe I hate it….when I even mention it all.  In the beginning, I checked-in for my daily 5:30am workout’s.  I mean, I’m working out at 5:30am!  Praise me!

But for the most part, my posts were snarky and complaint-like, because obviously, I was being forced into working out.  And eventually, it got old, for all involved.  (Read: I no longer needed the praise and validation of Facebook).

So, I couldn’t figure out exactly what she was seeing that would lead her to believe I would make a good fitness coach.  I decided to just ignore the message and hope she’d go away.

Two days later:

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Argh!  So, I responded with what I thought was a polite no.

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The irony of my misspelling “jam-packed” as “ham-packed,” is not lost on me.

And I wasn’t lying about the work thing.  For years, my husband and I had been talking about starting a small business.  When I learned my job was going to be eliminated, it seemed as good a time as any to give it a go.  So yeah, I’m busy.  But apparently, that wasn’t the right answer.

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Seriously?  Is it me, or are there a lot of assumptions being made here?

Like:

1.  We feel exactly the same way.

Nope, Sarah.  I don’t think we do.  I feel like YOU are sort of a self-righteous asshole, if you want to know the truth.


2.  That when I’m sitting on the couch watching my favorite show, I’m wasting my time.

I am fairly certain that the good doctors of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital have earned my undivided attention.  It’s thanks to them that I am so confident at making self-diagnoses.

And, I’ll have you know that sometimes, my computer is present.  How else am I supposed to further research the historical figures portrayed in Victoria, or collect screen grabs from various segments of This Old House?

I’m exercising my mind, Sarah!


3.  That I have debt to pay off and cannot take care of my children.

I was raised to believe two things:  That I wouldn’t amount to anything and that it was rude to discuss politics, religion and money, uninvited.


4.  That I have any desire to understand your business.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah….I think YOU are selling people a load of crap.

Here, drink this shake!  Work out to the same series of video’s that’ll only cost you $19.99 a month for infinity months.  And be sure you buy the $400 worth of cheap, shitty fitness equipment you could pick up for $20 at Target.  The pounds will melt away and you’ll get a daily inspirational message from me to keep you going!

In a word.  No.

I’m not a healthcare professional and I’m certainly not an authority on diet or exercise.

Earlier this week, I ate a great breakfast consisting of an egg white, on some kind of fancy-pants Whole Foods bread, topped with Avocado and a small dish of strawberries.

Yesterday, I ate an entire bag of dill pickle potato chips and a roll of fruit Mento’s.  What about that says, “This person is totally qualified to give diet advice.”

And sure, I can be all Rah, Rah!  You can do it!

But, I don’t actually know if some stranger I’ve never met, CAN do it.  Maybe there’s a health or mental issue that needs to be addressed, so that I don’t rah, rah some poor woman into cardiac arrest, or a nervous breakdown.

Isn’t that sort of why actual trainers become certified?

I know someone who has PH.D in exercise!  It’s called something else, I just don’t know how to spell it, but she’s legit.  I am not.  I’m in no way qualified to determine whether this crap is the right program for anyone.

And really?  How is it possible that you are properly supervising 515 other so called “Health and Fitness Coaches?”  It sounds to me like you are just sitting on-top of some kind of Ponzi-Scheme.

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5.  That I did not notice that the only thing you talked about was YOURSELF.

I spend a lot of time at the gym.  The various fitness instructors I work out with, all talk about how much they love helping people.  None of them, talk about how much money they are making off of them.

In fact, most come directly from their full time day jobs and they just teach classes on the side.  While we work out, they correct my form, they know what exercises to modify in order to accommodate physical limitations.  They know the names of the muscles I’m working and they know if my aches and pains are just a product of being sore, or a possible sign of injury.

I’m sure the extra money is nice, but I know what an instructor makes per class at my gym and it’s not enough to retire at 40 and then continue to work their day job just for shits and giggles.

So again, thanks but no thanks, Sarah.

And yes, I know exactly where to find you.  On social media:

Posing in a sports bra and yoga pants for before and after photo’s that always look suspiciously staged.

Snapping a selfie with your logo’d plastic bottle full of whatever that shake is.

And in the video’s with the hashtag, what’s your excuse that showcase your workout routine while your kids crawl all over the place in the background.

But trust me, I won’t be looking anytime soon.