Kicking Some Ass

 Your body was made for so much more than being looked at, deprived of food, and enjoyed by others. Your body was made for kicking some ass. -Gloria of Jezebul


On FB the other day, a few of my friends posted links to this article, posted on Jezebul.
Just about every sentence in this post rang with me. Many sentences also challenged me. It's those sentences--the ones which challenged me--that I want to write about.

For years now I have chafed at the responses I get from women when I mention my training and racing. I hear, "You are so good!" or "How do you find the time? You must have a very understanding husband!" or "Oh, you are so tiny! I would kill to be that small." I rarely hear comments like, "It's so cool that you are maximizing your body's potential, kicking some ass, and clearly having fun doing it."

The comments I receive are meant to be laudatory, I'm quite sure, but they miss entirely why I find the pursuit of triathlon so satisfying. The implication is that I work out so I can get good girl credits, get away from my children, and/or be skinnier than my 40 year-old mommy compatriots.  Swimming, biking and running couldn't possibly be activities I do each day because I want to celebrate my body and my life.  If I feel superior to some other women my age, it is not because I am thinner than they are; it's because I think I get something they don't get.
I get that my body was meant to kick ass.

I sound pretty realized, don't I?

Listen to me...
I don't work out to be thin... I work out to kick some ass. I don't work out to get away from the domestic bliss that is my life. I work out to kick some ass. I don't work out so that I can be good--more disciplined, more athletic, more worthy of respect and awe--than you. I don't.

Ummmmm. At least I think I don't.

Since I have been required to rest, I have gained some weight. Not a ton, but some. I know that this weight will go away when I begin to train again, and anyway, I know that I actually might look better now than I usually do--more full and rounded--possibly more sexy.

But, oh, wait, I don't care about that. Right? I don't care if I look fit or thin or sexy. I don't care if I wear a size 2 or 12, I don't care if I can strip down to a bikini and not feel self-conscious, or if I can fit into a tight pair of skinny jeans and boots at my age and not look like an ass--or, I should say, a fat ass.  I don't care about those things. Having a fit, toned body is only a bonus of doing triathlon, it is not my reason for doing it.  I really just want to kick some ass.

And I never yearn to get away from my children and on my own; away from the overwhelming and never-ending responsibility that comes from being a parent. I certainly don't use training as an excuse to leave Andy in charge. I don't ride my bike so that I can ride away; I don't run so I can escape. I don't.

At least I think I don't.

And I surely don't train so I can be more disciplined, more fit, more athletic, more worthy of awe and respect than you. I am above that. I don't need to feel superior to feel good about myself.

cough. sputter. choke.

Enjoying your own physical strength doesn't have to be viewed as subscribing to patriarchal notions of femininity.

Okay, does that mean it is okay to feel superior to those who I can beat on the race course? Does that qualify as enjoying my strength, or is it succumbing to my petty need to feel better, stronger, and faster than you? What exactly does it mean to enjoy one's physical strength? I love to race, I love to win, I love to dominate, I love to squeeze out of my body every ounce of its potential. Does this make me a person who enjoys my physical strength, or does this make me an insanely competitive, neurotic, Type A woman?  Can I be both?


As women, we're inundated every day with the idea that our bodies exist for other people- when we're catcalled on the street, when coworkers have entire conversations with our breasts rather than our faces, when we're groped on the subway. We're prudes if we don't let enough people access our bodies; sluts if we allow too many people to access our bodies.


I think it's safe to say I have never been labeled a prude. (Okay, you can stop chuckling now.) When I was a girl, though, I'm quite sure I was called a slut--if not to my face--then certainly in the boys' locker room behind my back. This has never seemed fair to me, although I'm quite sure the label earned me many dates with hopeful, horny high school boys.  At that time I think I very much believed that my body existed for others, and the interest I received from guys affirmed my self-worth. For some reason I didn't measure my worth by how smart I was, or how well-read, or how funny or nice. And I certainly didn't believe I was worthy just because... I was human.

Perhaps the idea that I measured my worth in terms of how "wanted" I was sounds extreme. Unfortunately, however, I think it is a pretty accurate description of my thinking when I was in high school and early college.

In high school I went out with a senior boy when I was sophomore. We were very serious, and I, at least, was monogamous, which for those who know me is definitely saying something. This boy was a swimmer, or an indoor track guy turned swimmer after an injury, and I was a swimmer too.

I remember having/receiving hickeys was the thing back then. Why, I have no idea. I guess they were marks that declared to the world that you were cool enough to be desired (if you were a girl) or gettin' some (if you were a boy). I remember I agreed to give hickeys to this boyfriend all over his body, including in between his thighs. He was ecstatic. It was clearly a badge of honor, and he displayed these hickeys with pride, which was easy for him to do since it was swim season.  The boys in the locker room saw them, of course, but also parents attending a swim meet that week, including both my mom and his parents (and, I will add, his father was my Physics teacher), teachers attending the meet saw them, and of course, other girls and boys saw them as he stood tall in his Speedo briefs, guffawing and slapping backs with the other kids on the team.

I am still friends with boys (now men) who were on that swim team. I am still friends with men who know that at fifteen, I was giving hickeys to inner thighs--just because I was asked to.  I must say, this is most unfortunate.

I mean really. What the fuck was I thinking?
And more importantly, why am I writing about this?

I guess I want to illustrate how deeply I believed that my body--that my whole person-- existed for others. Did I feel anything when I gave those hickeys? Was it pleasurable? What did I gain from it other than that everyone in our high school and extended community could see that I needed and wanted to be wanted--that being wanted was my sole measure of my worth--and that I would do anything to insure that others would continue to want me?

I have traveled many a mile since I was that age. Still, I continue to want people to want me; I still view people wanting me (at least in part) as a a measure of my worth. It is a constant battle not to feel that way.

My love of triathlon and what it awards me is not perfect. I rely on it to give me the body I want, the space I want, and the (untrue, but nevertheless present) feeling that I am superior to others who are sitting on the couch eating Fritos and lamenting their slovenly ways.

But triathlon has also helped me to move farther and farther away from the belief that my body exists not for me, but for you. It has allowed me to believe that my body was meant to kick ass--to kick ass for me--not you. It has allowed me to appreciate my body for what it does instead of chastising it for not looking the way society, and consequently me, believes it should look.  It has made me strong, and confident; it has allowed me to see food as wonderful and not the enemy, and it has shown me I can do things I never, ever thought I could do.

No, my love of triathlon is not perfect. It is tainted and impure, marred by needs that extend way back to my girlhood. But it is also amazing in what it has gifted me. And for that I am grateful.