No Pain, No Gain
The anxiety of exercise.
I love food.
No, you don't understand, I actually do. I’m not one of those people who claim they love food and bring in a sad salad-dressing-on-the-side-please for lunch. No, I am all about that cheesy, mother-fucking goodness of a chicken quesadilla with sour cream and salsa. I’m drooling as I’m writing this.
You see, there are people who claim that they love food but choose to restrict themselves for “dietary” reasons, and there are people who don’t give a fuck because they love food. I’m the latter. I have a pizza compass on my phone for God’s sake.
I never understood people who go on juice cleanses, carb-free diets, or any diets for that matter. I’ve tried dieting, and it never worked out. And honestly, none of that shit mattered. I studied psychology in school and learned about eating and anxiety disorders because of body image — especially amongst women — but I never gave it a second thought. My friends struggled and conquered eating disorders, and I applauded them for it. And still, it wasn’t something I thought about very often.
Fast forward to the fall of 2013. I had been at my job for about a year, and the stress of the real world was getting to me. (If I watched Girls, maybe my life was turning into that. I actually haven’t even seen an episode…)
I wasn’t sleeping well, my long-distance boyfriend was being an asshole (it’s okay, so was I), I didn’t have a good support system, and I needed to change up my routine. I decided to join a kickboxing class. Turns out, I like exercising! Well, let me rephrase that: I like punching the shit out of a bag and releasing some pent up rage. Other than that, exercising was not my cup of tea.
I also decided to take a hip-hop dance class, because I’m in New York City so why the fuck not?
At the same time, I tried to befriend some female co-workers who were around my age. Since I was finally settling into life, I wanted to take this chance to expand my social circle.
We went out to happy hour after work, partied on weekends, and captured all of our memories on Instagram. Of course. We were BFFs all in the span of two weeks. That’s really all you needed to get to really know someone.
I noticed that when we went out for drunk food, they would always comment on how much food it was. Who even thought about portion sizes of food when you’re drunk?
One morning, I woke up, hung over to a text from a female coworker: “You look so much thinner in your pictures!”
Uh — what the actual fuck?
Now, let me break it down to you: I’m 5'4", and I also fluctuate between 120-125 pounds. No one has ever commented about my weight, and I always thought I was pretty healthy and normal.
I texted back: “What? Was I fat before?”
She texted back a floundering excuse of not having seen me for a long time: “I’m just saying the exercise is really paying off.”
I decided to ignore it, but in the back of my mind, this really bothered me. Was this supposed to be a compliment?
A few weeks later, another incident happened in the lunch room:
“That is so much food,” another co-worker commented.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I work out a lot.” And why did it matter so much?
She laughed, as if I were playing a joke on her. It was as if eating this much food was comical because who could eat that much? I looked around me and saw everyone was eating a salad. Again, I tried to brush this comment off, but it continued to bother me.
I started feeling more stressed at work, so I started going to the gym more often. 3 times a week quickly turned into 6. And on the 6th day, I trained with a personal trainer.
That one hour of zen became my only moment of release. I started eating “healthy” for lunch, only to be hungry two hours later. I started following “fitspo” feeds on Instagram that encouraged you to train every single day. If I didn’t leave work at the right time, I would feel an overwhelming anxiety flood over me. I had to go to the gym on time. I had to make it to the class on time. I had to train. Or else.
Or else, what?
Weeks went by, and I followed this routine like religion. I started eating lunch at my desk. I started drifting from the friends that I made earlier that year. I bumped into one of them in the hallway.
“Wow, you are SO skinny,” she said, excitedly.
I didn’t say anything. I flashed a smile and kept walking.
A few months later, I went on a much-needed vacation. Someone who had CouchSurfed with me in New York hosted me and my boyfriend. He offered to make us pasta for dinner and drink some beer. My stomach tied into knots. I had consciously been avoiding carbs. I didn’t want to gain weight and waste all of that hard work.
“What’s wrong?” my boyfriend asked, as I lingered in the produce section of the grocery store. Our host had wandered off to find pasta.
“Nothing,” I lied. “I just feel nauseous from the plane, so I’m not really hungry.”
He gave me a comforting hug. When we got back from the store, I sat in the room and tried to calm down. My boyfriend and our host started cooking.
After dinner, I took a shower and did 140 squats.
When I got back from vacation, I went back to my usual routine. Wake up, work, and gym. A couple days later, I started feeling sick. I went to the gym anyway. Midway through class, I thought I was going to pass out, but I pulled through. Eventually, I caught a full-on cold and had to stay in bed. Instead of relaxing, I couldn’t help but to think: “I need to make up so many work out days.”
It took me a while to figure out why I was so obsessed with working out. Sure, I loved it, and it made me feel good. But when I missed a session, I felt terrible. That was not healthy. And it was all because I began worrying about what others thought of my body. Now that I think about it, I began worrying about people I didn’t even like all that much.
It was the first time anyone had mentioned my appearance as if it affected my overall character. They talked to me like I was only now worthy because I fit in to this imaginary standard of beauty that’s saturated in media and pop culture. Even if it was well-intentioned, it was thoughtless. And on hindsight, pretty harmful.
I started working out because I wanted to and because it was a great stress release. However, it quickly turned into, “I don’t want to look fat in front of other people again.” I stopped eating food that I loved because I couldn’t help thinking about the arbitrary number of pounds I would gain.
Working out is a healthy habit, but it won’t do you any good when it turns into an obsession.
I wish I could offer some sage words of wisdom, but all I really have to say is fuck that. Seriously. If anyone is judging your worth based on your body, you can tell them to eat shit.
How many women have to feel guilty about eating food? How many lives must be claimed by eating disorders? How many articles do we have to read before you can get the point across: Bodies are bodies, everyone is unique, and everyone has different body types. Love yourself and be comfortable in your own skin.
And if you love food more than you love people, that’s completely fine.
