Feminists at the Gym

Since I moved to Chicago in July 2008, my exercise life has been pretty pathetic. In fact, I've gone months at a time with it being completely non-existent. Yeah, I'd go on kicks once in awhile where I'd daydream about getting a gym membership, or I'd go for a walk, do my Jane Fonda or Cindy Crawford tape, or do Pilates twice a week in my living room. (My cats get really concerned when I pull out my Pilates mat. Usually one or both decides it's best to stretch out on it with me. It makes me a little uncomfortable.)

The only thing that saved me from losing all muscle definition whatsoever this past year was my job waiting tables. All that pacing around in circles when you don't have tables (cause of course you're not allowed to sit down!), running after customers, and carrying trays of beer and burgers actually does burn calories. In fact, after my first month of waiting tables, I actually lost weight. This of course balanced out right around the time I realized I could get a free beer after every shift. What, beer's not good for you? Go figure.

Anyway, now that I've quit my job waiting tables, I've realized how easy it would be to sit on my couch in my sweatpants all day, computer on lap, eating, and not working out, ever. Next thing I know, I finally get a job interview, and I have to wear said sweatpants, because no other clothes fit. Hiring manager takes one look at me and calls security. I go home, sit on the couch and eat an entire box of macaroni and cheese, cycle continues.

Good news. I also now have a gym membership and I've decided to use it. After a week of announcing that I would go to the gym, I finally did it today. And here's the thing: As soon as I walked into the gym I felt better. I got on an elliptical, played Bajofondo Tango Club on my iPod, and I was ready to rule the world. Seriously. Every time I work out, my mind clears, I feel happy and energetic, and I'm ready to apply for 5,000 jobs if that's what it takes for someone to realize how brilliant I am. And all it took was 45 minutes of my day.

I realize that what I'm saying is of no surprise to anyone, least of all me. I grew up doing Jane Fonda workout tapes with my mom, for chrissakes. I played sports from ages 5 to 17. I get it. Endorphins, health, yada yada yada. I KNOW that I feel better when I'm working out and eating right. So what the hell? Why don't I ever do it? Well, all that's changing now. It's 2010, and I'm almost 26-years-old. My metabolism isn't going to have a crush on me forever. Plus, at this time in my life, poor and job searching, what I need more than ever is the mental and physical boost I get from exercise.

Now, you might be wondering (if you haven't given up on reading already), why I'm talking in such detail about my exercise habits. In recent months, I've grown increasingly aware of the discussion of body image and fat hate in the feminist blogosphere. Both are important topics, and until now, I've completely ignored them here on the Rainbow chronicles, aside from my one previous post about trying to find motivation to exercise. To be honest, that's most likely due to the fact that those aren't the feminist issues that really get my blood boiling and make me want to write. To be really honest, it's a topic that I find difficult to write, for a number of reasons. For one, I don't always agree (EEK!) with the popular discussion on the issues. That's not to say that I don't think body image is an important concern—it is, whether you're a woman, man, feminist, whoever, it's important. That's also not to say that I don't think there is a major problem with discrimination of overweight people, or "fat hatred" in our culture—there is. So, what, then?