Whenever anything or anyone ever asks me about my “fitness regimen”, I am quick to say it doesn’t exist.
But, in a way, it does.
This past week, I technically worked out a number of times; It consisted of dancing (by myself) in sporadic bursts of time. Hot, sweaty, and smiling.
I went on a couple of walks, too.
I spent most of my evenings stretching, painting my nails, doing light yoga and exercises while watching whatever, and smoking cigarettes if I felt like it. (For some reason, I haven’t been smoking much lately. Today I’ve had two.)
Somewhere in there I did some strength-training and pilates that I made up along the way, which escalated into testing myself to see how long I could keep my legs lifted, parallel to the ground, with my back to the floor.
The answer was: not long. But I kept lifting them up again anyway, and my muscles became warm and happy for it.
One week can not accurately encompass all of my life habits, but as an average: I’d say it’s about right.
The anxiety I live with every day is dense within my body. It saturates my muscles and nerve-endings so much that it seems I can feel it surge and recede like jolts of electricity.
Sometimes, my body is sore from anxiety’s effect. My muscles twitch, sting, and ache due to internal forces rather than outward physical exertion.
The burn of physical movement and the ache of anxious muscles, together, is bittersweet.
So I focus on that feeling, on myself, when I move my body to music. I feel how my fat sways and gives way as I bend, jump, and stretch - and it empowers me to move more. I test my flexibility and feel as the tension dissipates. I am aware.
I am so aware and in touch with myself in these moments of radical self worth and solitary movement that I actually forget what “fitness” is.
I don’t need a set of rules to tell me how I should or shouldn’t be moving my body in a healthful way.
I know that whatever I am doing is what is right for me because I have learned how to listen to my body’s cues - and we’ve decided to set our own goddamn rules.
Curvy Yogi Appreciation (Part V)
[because yogis come in all shapes and sizes]
(Also see parts II, III, and IV)
I still can’t do half of these. Ugh. :/
fitness comes in all sizes! These people are so strong and flexible, omg.
YES! I love it, I need more photosets like this in my life.
My roommate has been here for me every step of my recovery. It’s been interesting- when I began recovery, she began her weight-loss journey. She is the reason that I’ve made it this far.
Anywho- we both get really annoyed at fitblrs and blogs that post really harsh things like “NO EXCUSES” or “DO THIS, DO THAT” sort of mentality.
Life is not about being the fittest. Life is not about going to the gym on a regular basis. Life is not being fashionable. Life is not about how many reps of something you do a day. No. If you don’t feel like going to the gym for 2 weeks, then who the fuck cares! Don’t go! Your life shouldn’t revolve around going to the gym and eating gold foods.
I completely respect people who carry out a healthy lifestyle by going to the gym and eating right. What I admire about those people is that they are also mentally in check. They don’t have a bad relationship with keeping up with their health.
I’m trying to understand where the line gets drawn between being fit, and being obsessive.
Moral of this scatterbrained post: Don’t feel forced or obligated to do anything.
The thing about being “mentally in check” is that, like, not everyone is mentally sound.
I mean, I am a fucking madwoman. I don’t always know what it means to be “mentally in check” and when I do, I appreciate it and everything, but it doesn’t make me a better person.
The line between fit and obsessive often depends on health.
But health is widely defined as one thing, when it should really be defined individually.
For me, good health means waking up without a migraine and feeling good enough to get out of bed. It means not letting my anxieties control me and doing the things I want to do in a day, like cooking myself food or getting some work done or spending time with my family. It may or may not include some kind of movement or physical activity, that is not always a priority.
Good mental health leads to good physical health, but good mental health isn’t always a given.
Just more thoughts to chew on.
..I long for the day in which we can enjoy runway shoes without being shown young Women forced into emaciation, when ladies don’t feel they need to starve themselves in to a 7 year old frame to be deemed beautiful enough; because until then I can’t appreciate the artwork of fashion whilst being heartbroken by having to watch someone waste away, paraded whilst she’s slowly dying. That is my fault with the fashion industry and I want to see a change.
The looks fat people get in gyms is enough to want to never go back
You say you care about peoples health
But you look at them like they are the scum of the earth for actually taking your advice
Most of the time it’s not even like fat people are taking anyone’s advice, they’re just LIVING THEIR LIVES and being active like anyone else. Like, god fucking forbid.
This is the kind of shit that makes me horrified to step into a gym. I have heard so many stories of fat people actually being talked down to, or condescendingly complimented, like “oh good for you you good little fatty, I’m so proud that you’re not on a couch stuffing your face with donuts right now”
Being visibly fat, in public, doing things (especially exercise or any other activity that could get twisted and shamed) is fucking hard sometimes. It really is. After a lifetime of being discriminated against, knowing the way other people my size are often treated, on top of having an anxiety disorder and inability to let shit roll off my back as easily as I wish I could…It just takes too much, and I don’t always have the energy to face it.
But there are good days when conditions are right and I can tell the world to properly fuck off so I may do as I please - and those days make all the difference, really and truly.