So, last month I joined a cult.
I should preface that a little. First, I live in the skinniest region in the country. I do not have research to back that up, but I know that research has been done, and someone is welcome to go have a google at it and prove me right.
Second, there has been a blog post growing in my head for several years about the teacher's lounge at one of the schools where I work...this is problematic because I know you're supposed to never blog about your workplace, especially if you're being less than complimentary. But listen, I think this is sort of the opposite of a backhanded compliment...some kind of gripe that is only a gripe because I like and admire the people about whom I'm griping? Does that work? I'm going to pretend it does.
Third, the first requirement of cult I joined is texting a picture of your scantily clad self to a total stranger...and I DID. That right there should be a huge red flag, the kind of red flag that, in its frantic waving, knocks you in the head with the end of its flagpole, giving you a concussion and averting the whole unfortunate situation. But I was not so lucky, and said picture is now preserved in the annals of electronic history (Side note: I'm sure we all have those moments when our utter lack of self-respect astounds even ourselves. Actually, I don't know if we all do that. Maybe it's just me). I could totally give you a blow-by-blow of me, facing the bathroom mirror in a sports bra, trying to hold the camera-phone at such an angle that it conceals the fact that I haven't shaved my armpits in...ahem...a while - but, luckily for you, this post is not about the growing-in of my winter pelt. No, it's about how the residents of my particular part of Colorado are body-obsessed (like, seventeen-year-old-girl body-obsessed, only it's not limited to seventeen-year-old-girls) and how I and my increasingly ample muffin top joined their ranks for a week.
So let's back up to the teacher's lounge. The teachers in this building are some of the best teachers you could hope to meet anywhere. They are caring, funny, supportive of the kids and of each other, devoted to their profession, and just an all-around lovely group of women. But I tell you what, for entire months at a stretch, the lunchroom conversation would center entirely around who was on what diet, who was doing what workout, and how much weight had been lost as a result. And how depressingly small that amount was, and how far they had to go to be back at their pre-pregnancy weight, and how early they had to get up how many days a week to complete their ps90X, or crossfit or crushfit or insanity workout, and which meal replacement shakes they liked or didn't like. It was soul-killing.
And to an outsider, it would appear that this was an intolerably shallow group of people. But the thing is, I know them, and they're not shallow. They're smart and dedicated and all better teachers than I am, and after weeks and weeks of listening to them the depressing realization dawned that this was such a large part of what they felt they had to offer the world. And then the scary realization dawned that these women are the role models for hundreds of girls every year, smart sassy beautiful silly girls, girls who were old enough to understand the message here, that it didn't matter how educated you were, or how many lives you touched; being thin and pretty was the most important thing.
And just like the message seeps into kids' brains without us even realizing it, it seeps into our brains too.
Case in point: I do not think being pretty and thin is the most important thing. I am not that person (am I? that little voice whispers). On a good day, my morning beauty routine runs about seven minutes. But I'm also of an age that could be rounded up to forty. I recently got reading glasses, and my eyes are not the only thing that don't look or function quite the same as when I was twenty-four. I don't care, I tell myself. It doesn't bother me. I'm above that. But it's hard to button my jeans. I'm braced for the day when a well-intentioned kindergartener asks me if I have a baby in my tummy. And, truth be told, my husband and I had been hitting the fun size snickers bars pretty hard in preparation for Halloween.
So when I found a flyer in my mailbox from a local nutritionist hosting a week-long 'clean eating challenge,' I thought, great idea! We would look her up on Facebook, she would post recipes daily, and we would check in, comment, and generally keep each other accountable and motivated. This sounded okay - I could use some new lunch options, and I'd been consuming so much coffee that I spent most afternoons with a low-grade headache. Clean eating, yay!
But then, as a token of our commitment, we had to text her a 'before' picture of ourselves in sports bra or bikini. 'Before' pictures are never pleasant (I guess that's the point), but I had already downloaded her shopping list and spent $200 on raw leafy veggies, berries, almond butter, and quinoa (okay, I admit it, I already had the quinoa), so I grimly donned the sports bra and sequestered myself with the camera phone.
Anyway, one cup of caffeinated beverage per day, lots of raw vegetables, and a completely unrealistic amount of water - generally survivable, and it was almost worth it alone to have someone else answer that least-favorite question of what's for dinner. Our fearless leader was on the FB page constantly, responding to comments, answering questions about whether you could substitute kale for blueberries, and posting lots of bubbly support and positive, inspirational fitness messages. Things like "Stop saying 'I wish' and start saying 'I will,' superimposed over rainbows, waterfalls, or people's exceedingly flat bellies (not making that up).
And for all the hype, living five days without wine or chocolate was not that big a deal.
Nor did it change my life.
Working out every day is nice, but it sucks up a lot of precious, precious time.
And for all that, my 'after' picture did not look any different than my 'before' picture. Excepting a slightly more strategic camera angle.
I already knew that water and vegetables are good for you, and coffee and mini snickers bars are not. The rest, the mystery at the heart (or the exceedingly flat belly) of this cult, remains a mystery, and I remain uninitiated. Half-disappointed and half-relieved, but still on the outside.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some cookies to bake. Maybe I'll take some in to the teacher's lounge.
