unogirl83’s BodyBlog

Alligator Stew for a Female Lifter’s Soul
by Erin Davison
I was at the gym the other evening searching for the equipment and the    space I needed to begin my warm-up.

Other members milled around me, presumably involved in their own workouts. The free-weight area was packed. All the benches were occupied. Both power racks, both Smith machines, both cable frames, and all four bench presses were occupied — and every single one of them was male.

Curious, I peeked upstairs at the cardio area. There were my fellow women, all on the ellipticals and the treadmills. Their bodies either had scrawny, boy-like proportions, or they were motherly with doughy, overlapping curves. The women of the gym had allowed themselves to be relegated to the moving walkways.

Or had they relegated themselves?

With a roll of my eyes I elbowed my way to the weight rack and grabbed a pair of dumbbells. Neither of the aforementioned body types was my goal, and ellipticals and treadmills wouldn’t get me where I wanted to go. As I settled into my workout, I thought about the other women in the gym. Most weren’t strong and powerful. Some believed they couldn’t be    powerful; others believed they shouldn’t be powerful.

They allowed themselves to fall for the stereotypes and be swayed by public opinion regarding what they should do with their bodies. At that thought I rolled into a set of pushups and set my jaw. My goal was power.

Plan Your Playlist Well

I have a playlist on my iPod called “Hard Workout.” It’s a 67-song mélange of hard rock, new metal, 80’s pop, grunge, and country. Playing with the Boys by Kenny Loggins is    a cheerful kick when I’m weaving my way through my gym; the frantic    drive of Superbeast by Rob Zombie spurs me on when I’m pushing    for one last rep.

The songs are chosen to be upbeat, motivating, and to get my blood surging. Drowning Pool, Metallica, Velvet Revolver, and other artists’ songs propel me with hot guitars and pounding bass, but sometimes the sheer attitude is what drives me.

A good percentage of the songs are by women with unquenchable spirits: Shirley Manson of Garbage; Amy Lee of Evanescence; Pink; Gwen Stefani of No Doubt. These divas of rock share the throne with the country singer Gretchen Wilson. Her song begins this way:

I’m an 8-ball-shootin’, double-fisted drinkin’    son-of-a-gun,

I wear my jeans a little tight just to watch the little boys come      undone…

The song continues in a declaration of ballsy female attitude. When this song comes on, my chin comes up and my eyes lift. I survey the gym and prepare to make my mark. My shoulders square off and I decide what to attack next. Any reticence I felt goes out the window as I smile to myself and claim a spot next to some muscular guys. My energy spikes and I am ready.

I’m a woman, I lift weights, and I’m here for the party.

Bird Legs Are For the Birds

Women are taught through the media and by society that they should have slender, smooth legs, ideally with thighs that don’t touch. Muscle cuts are frowned upon because they break the line. If there must be evidence of muscles under the skin, it should be restricted to a single gentle curve of the calf.

Our goal is supposed to be those scrawny bird legs that look as if they can barely do the job of lifting themselves, much less a loaded barbell.

Flip through fashion magazines. Get angry about the narrow definition of beauty. Flip more pages and notice how every picture seems to be the same body, even though the faces are different. Rip out all of the pictures of scrawny models. Then rip those pictures to shreds.

This isn’t about being as thin as the airbrushed, PhotoShopped pictures of women who represent 1% of our population. This isn’t about achieving an emaciated, fragile stick-figure. This isn’t about looking like you could be snapped in two by a wayward gust of wind.

This is about the strength and curve of a well-developed muscle, the firmness and definition of a body that has passed all physical tests.

There are two “show” muscles in the back of the calf. One is bisected and blooms magnificently when trained. Just north of the calf are the four quadriceps muscles that flow uninterrupted up the thigh. The scalloping of these muscles will break up the smooth line of the thigh and that’s what we want.

Cut ‘em up, girls. Do your squats and lunges. Burn your glutes on deads and get that perky butt the girls on the treadmills think has to be the product of a plastic surgeon instead of the product of hard work. Use your glorious muscles to redefine what is beautiful.

You Are More Than a Mommy

There is a certain style of woman that represents the accepted look to which we all are expected to devolve. This is a stage most women go through. Call her “mommy,” call her “mature,” call her “grown up.”

I prefer you call her “cop out.”

You know the look: the wash-and-wear clothes. The wash-and-wear hair. The pudgy, soft body that cushions children and disappoints men. The weary face on a body that’s tired from a life of taking care of others instead of herself. The resigned “best I can do” attitude. The woman who has given up being vibrant and vital and alive and has accepted mediocrity as all she can achieve.

Why? Married life and motherhood hand you a list of convenient excuses. Too tired. Too busy. Kids need me. Husband needs me. Need to clean. Need to run errands. Gyms are too intimidating. Buying new clothes is too expensive.

All are excuses that can be overcome, except for the attitude that accompanies them: this is just what a woman’s body does when it reaches a certain age and/or has borne a child.

That one is the biggest excuse of all.

You are more than your reproductive organs. You are more than an inevitable slide downhill to the lowest expectations. Your body wants to move and be strong. Your muscles want to strain, your heart wants to pump, your lungs want to heave and gasp. Your blood wants to burn a path through your veins. Your body wants to achieve its passionate, electric best.

So get off your widening hips and start moving. Never accept    “average” as the best you can do.

Put the “Ass” in Assumption

The average woman is weaker than the average man. So what? Lift heavy anyway. The free-weight room in any gym is typically full of men. So what? Go there anyway. Some people — men and women alike — are intimidated by a woman who is strong. So what? Be strong anyway.

Eyebrows typically lift when an average woman enters a free weight area. Men watch to see what this interloper will do. Eyes track her as she follows her instincts by keeping her head down and scurrying to the far end of the dumbbell rack to meekly pick up the pink 5-pound weights.

The men nod and reassure themselves that all is as it should be and go back to their grunting and strutting. The worst of these bantam cocks go so far as to throw their weights around and drop them on the floor as they peek at our reactions, assuming women will be impressed by their strength or scared of the weight they are lifting. They want you to cower.

No. We will not. Lift your head, go in and break through those assumptions.

Forget those 5-pound weights. Let them watch as you get the 50 pounders and do some lunges. Grab the 100 pound bar and do some deads. Load up your bar on the bench press and squeeze some out. Use the squat rack. Introduce yourself to your muscles and make them work for a living.

This isn’t a free ride, and they’re going to have to earn their keep. Train heavy and train hard. Those men you were so nervous about? They assumed you couldn’t lift when you entered the room. Let those assumptions build a fire in you. Prove them wrong.

Self-Sufficiency is a Good Thing

I was walking down the hallway at a local community college following a girl toward the double doors. She was a student so she was at least 18, but compared to me she was almost miniature. The girl was small, only about chest height to me, and tiny-boned.

She was very thin, with no visible muscle to speak of. As this was pretty much the standard at this college, I was merely watching her to make sure I didn’t bump into the frail thing.

Then we came to the doors and I stood back to watch.

The double doors were outfitted with handicapped levers so that pushing the button on the side would open the door for someone in a wheelchair, on crutches, in a cast — someone who had a disability. As such they were a bit heavier than a normal door, but still could be opened by hand.

I stood back and watched as this girl leaned against the door. Nothing    happened. She leaned again and nothing happened.

Frustrated, she reached over and smacked the “handicapped” button to open the doors and then walked through and went on her way. I stood in the hallway, astonished, and let the doors close in front of me. After a couple of moments I shook myself, put my hand on the door, shoved it open and went through.

Had I honestly just witnessed that? Had I really just seen a young woman without enough bulk and strength to open the door for herself? Was it possible that this young, presumably healthy, mobile, independent young woman was so thin and light she couldn’t overcome a door hinge? I contemplated the idea all day, and I contemplate it still.

There’s such a thing as chivalry, and I’m all for a man holding a door for a woman as a sign of his regard for her. What I do not support is the idea that as women it is acceptable for us to be unable to    open our own doors. Or lift our own suitcases. Or carry our own groceries.    Or pump up a jack to change a flat tire.

We have muscles. We have those muscles so that we can take care of ourselves. Giving up that strength is not feminine. Self-sufficient, powerful, graceful, capable… these are the things that are feminine.

Never, ever, give that up.

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