One of these summers is better than the other…

(By Matt Shirley on Instagram, making whiteboards worth it.)

To continue turning this blog into one big sports metaphor, here’s an essay by journalist Debra Hotaling about trying to find “her” sport her whole life: Sixty and Climbing (via this week’s Lenny Letter).

After weeks of failing to reach a ridiculous hold, my arms suddenly connected with it, as if I’d always known how. Where did that come from? I wondered. How did I do that? My 60-year-old body still holds surprises.

Which makes me think: What else could I do if I were able to stop silently asking permission? Or if I ignored what I thought I knew about what might happen next?

Climbing has re-taught me that there is only right now. I may not have this strong body next week or next year, so I better get moving. I don’t have time to be shy or embarrassed or worry about what anyone else thinks.

I had this text exchange with my friend yesterday:

So I am taking this opportunity to say emphatically I’m no unicorn. I can barely feed the two of us*, sleep is iffy, I haven’t been to the gym since my class ended, that running picture yesterday was taken like three weeks ago, there’s a corner of the yard that’s an absolute wilderness, and even just getting myself ready and out the door every morning feels nearly impossible sometimes. So parents: You’re doing great. We all are. Let’s all get ourselves a sandwich today (and not worry about making food)**.

*True fact: Target had a cereal sale and I brought home four boxes of it yesterday. Doc saw me unloading the bags and I told him with an absolutely straight face, “Here’s our dinner plans for the week!”

**Suggestions on vegetarian recipes/cookbook inspiration welcome.

“I just want to sew.”

“I just want to sew things correctly.“

“I just want to not exhaust myself and everyone I love with my emotions.”

“I just want to watch MST3K.”

“I just want to be a lizard on a rock.”

“I just want to play bocce while drinking something with gin and, like, rose petals in it.”

“I just want to listen to disco.”

“I just want to join a choir that only teaches 70s-style close vocal harmonies.”

“I just want everything to go back to like it was.”

“I just want some champagne.”

It’s my last weightlifting class tonight before I find a gym or a rec center to keep lifting on my own. Someone asked me the other day why I even got into it, and I garbled out an answer, “There’s a woman on Instagram and she writes a column?”

That doesn’t even do justice to the glory that is Swole Woman, though. I saw her Hairpin columns come through on The Toast back when The Toast was online (and the joy of my life) and I started reading them.

I had fallen off the consistent yoga wagon a few years ago. I tried Fitness Blender videos  for a hot second, based on Sallie Oh’s recommendation. Then when she shifted to lifting, I thought, “Oh no that’s not for me.”

It’s a good thing Swole Woman set me straight. She makes lifting sound like the most obvious thing in the world…

“Aside from the general benefits of working out, I don’t think anyone’s ever been like, “ugh, I’m TOO strong, it’s TOO easy to bend down and pick this 40lb bag of cat litter up, TOO easy to carry all the groceries from the car in one trip, TOO easy to stand up from sitting on the floor. If only I struggled more!”

…while also giving solid advice on finding a trainer, dealing with a new gym, and staying motivated. She knows her shit, too: Every column has links to videos, training programs, forums to learn more about form and routines, and her Instagram shows her doing what she’s talking about. She even posts recipes!

And she’s so fierce. This is empowerment the way of Fury Road, not GOOP. (The opening of this column is one of my favorite things on the internet.)

She’s moved on to writing a monthly column for Self and is in the middle of a book proposal, which I am going to line up to buy.

So thanks, Swole Woman. My journey to swole started with you.

I’m about five weeks into a community ed “Introduction to Weight Training” class and I love it more than I ever thought I’d love exercise. Feeling the burn as my puny arms get stronger is wonderful, which is an absolute surprise to myself. I’ve bought protein powder. I’m watching Mark Rippetoe videos about form. Hell, I am even going to post a quote from an article that makes a sports analogy about weightlifting and that burn as you get stronger:

Instead of trying to escape from, ignore, or stop the burning, as I once did in Phys Ed class, I settle into it willingly, like the heat from a sauna. I let it build and intensify as I push on, without trying to defend against it, and that intensity is exhilarating. Even though it burns, it feels like strength, capability, progress. 

I guess that’s what all those 1980s television aerobics instructors meant when they commanded us to “Feel the burn!” If you’re going to be making progress, you’re going to be feeling a burn. So you might as well come to it willingly, embracing it as the intense feeling of making long-term gains, rather than a punishing side-effect we want to feel as little of as possible.

There seems to be an equivalent “burn” with all forms of personal boundary-pushing, a tension or discomfort that comes with all attempts to reach higher-hanging fruit. Getting anywhere with public speaking entails walking and talking through the burn of nerves. Creative work entails the burn of completing mediocre pieces of work, and showing them to people. Entrepreneurship entails the burn of working under the risk of failure and rejection.

The Paris Review covers The Rational Dress Society and their mission to get everyone in a JUMPSUIT (sic) aka monogarment (also sic but I love it): The Jumpsuit That Will Replace All Clothes Forever.

It’s The Paris Review so it’s not fluff, but it’s fun to read. I enjoyed the author’s experiment of wearing nothing but a jumpsuit for three weeks:

Although I have been worried about how I look, the truth is I’ve never felt less fat. The garment does not constantly remind me of my girth; it does not threaten to bust at the seams if I move too quickly or eat too much. I’m not just thwarting the tyranny of capitalism—I’m thwarting the tyranny of tightness.

[…]

As the days passed and the novelty wore off, a different set of truths settled in. Two weeks in, I sat in a work meeting across from a woman with beautifully blow-dried hair, perfectly applied makeup, and a colorful pencil skirt. I felt, by comparison, like a manly baby wearing a onesie and work boots, and I was distracted by my need to prove both my femininity and my professionalism.

From BuzzFeed News (I know), a short and delightful essay by Alanna Okun about how making her own clothes made her confront her measurements and think a little more kindly about herself:

I stopped thinking, for a moment, about my body as anything other than the vehicle for this beautiful item I wanted so badly to bring into the world. I stopped thinking that it had to look or be anything other than what it was, because the sweater, somehow, would conform to its requests. My body had nothing to do just then with sex, food, pain, worthiness, or value. It was just there, and it was mine, and so too would be this sweater.

I love the end:

“Look what I made” isn’t just a cute little mewl for attention; it can be a battle cry. “Look.” It can be a command. “Look at me, as I am, as I want to be. I did this. I made this, and you can’t ever take it away.”

I don’t quote it much here but Frank Herbert’s Dune series is probably one of the most frequent things to pop into my head (Laura Ingalls Wilder is up there, too).

Blame it on early exposure and complete world building, I guess–but the Litany Against Fear has served me well for many years. Here it is:

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

Four years ago tonight, I went to a hipster taco place to celebrate my friend’s husband’s birthday. Because my friend is a magician, there were not one but two single men there.

Because my friend is smart, she hadn’t told me about this beforehand.

The hipster waitress told us about the hipster specials, saying, “The fish for the fish tacos tonight is escolar.” Single Man #1 said, to no one in particular, “Pablo?” and I thought, “Who’s this guy?”

This guy, it turns out, is the most patient and generous man I’ve ever met. He’s calm on the exterior and Steinbeckian in his depths (he really does wave at dogs and cars). He gives the best advice and the best hugs has become the bedrock of my life. It has been a privilege to spend the last four years learning from him and I wanted to publicly celebrate it.

(We’re not going back to the hipster taco place for dinner, though.)