Losing It [Not My Weight—My Composure]

We all know that exercise is good for us. A few of us actually like to do it. And I think I might be the only one who cries over it. [Let me explain…]

I was training for an ultra-marathon relay race. [Yeah.] One where you have a team of 10 runners and you run, around the clock, for 242km (150mi.). [Yes. I’m totally intense like that. And so are my friends.] Well, you’ve seen how well I do running outside and with it being [a freezing] rainy season, I actually bought a gym membership. I picked a really nice ladies’ gym near my work with great machines, a sauna and belly dancing classes. [I guess they’re not all born with this gift already perfected.] Now, I don’t know if you know this about me or not, but… I was a college athlete. I wasn’t the star of the team, I didn’t break any records, but I learned how to work out hard and lift heavy. Our motto was “Why run and puke when you can eat and throw?” Yes. I threw the hammer. [YouTube ‘hammer throw.’ It’s beautiful.] And so, running has always been punishment for me… until I lived in a society where I had no control and, what I perceived to be, “freedom.”

Some days the “emotional whiplash,” shebab [youth males] on the streets and just a bad day at work, where no one actually speaks to you in English, wears on you. And you have all this pent up “frustration-and-sadness-and-hurt-and-you-wanna-go-home-but-not-really-but-actually-you-just-want-to-hit-someone-and-there’s-no-ocean-to-go-scream-at” going on inside of you. You should run. You need to get it out, make some endorphins. As my friend Jayme would point out: You need some serotonin on the brain. Shahtra, ya Jayme—gym membership purchased. I only had about 2 weeks of exercise bliss until this happened…

Me (to my “trainer” while I did some leg extensions): “I’m having a really bad day. Can I do this alone? I want to just work out and lift heavy things.”

Trainer (who has some certificate, but I’m sure has never lifted anything but a baby brother in her life): Well, not that much. (She moved my weights from 85 pounds down to 40.)

Me: Why’d you do that? I can’t even control 40 pounds it’s so light. (I put it back on 85.)

Trainer (replaces the weight at 40): Your file says that you should be lifting this much and that’s the plan you’re going to follow. You will do leg extension, 40 pounds.

Me (laughing, trying not to be mad): Girl. Look at my legs. I can clearly, without any effort, lift 40 pounds. Look! I can even do one-leg extensions with that. Maybe it’s a typo?

Trainer: No. It’s not a “typo.” This is your program and you will follow it.

[Oh, no, she dih-int. She just bossed me and told me what I was going to do. Last thing I wanted was for one more person, that day, to tell me what I was going to do.]

Me (standing up): Friend, I was a college athlete in America. You have my name—Google me. [Yeah, I really said that….] I’m doing your little program because your boss said if I did it, I could lift any weights I wanted. You can clearly see that I am capable of lifting more than double that amount. Why won’t you let me?

Trainer (getting very embarrassed and apologetic… because maybe I started to cry): Ok. Ok, my love. You can do it. Don’t cry…

Me: All I wanted to do was come in here and be with women and not be on the streets. It’s hard. I have no control and they’re mean. They’re mean to me. And now you won’t let me. I just… wanted… to… lift… weights… and… beeee….. happppppppY!

At this point, I had most of the gym watching and listening. I took my little chart, filed it back under the S’s, went to the locker room, collected my things and left.

I tried going back a few times, but I had ruined my safe space. They left me alone and the “scary” trainer “supervised” me [let me do what I wanted]. But after another week or so, I couldn’t go back. I had totally lost it. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed. I was confused. Why I couldn’t communicate myself in a polite, grown-up manner was just beyond me.

I wanted to write that trainer an apology note for my blow-up/breakdown, but nothing ever came out right. So, I paid for a three month gym membership and only used 5 weeks of it. And I forced myself to train outside in the cold and the rain.

[The ultra-marathon went well. And it didn’t rain.]

Sometimes I Buy Myself Flowers

So what would you say if I told you that sometimes I buy myself flowers?
I mean, my brothers would probably make fun of me…
I obviously think it’s the right thing to do, because I do it from time to time.
Ya wanna know why? I’ll tell you:

Because out there on the streets of my city—
it’s an emotional rollercoaster.

Just the other day I got done with work, where the men are my friends, supporters, representatives & bosses. Upon exiting that safe haven, I took to the streets to go record some music for a friend at his recording studio, just a 15 minute walk away. [I don’t take a taxi if I don’t have to, especially not for such a short distance, on such a nice, sunshiny day.] And as I’m happily walking to go do something I love for some dear friends, I put in my one working earphone & turn up the sweet tunes of Tristan Prettyman [my favorite].

As if my life were a movie, a car approaching me on the road starts honking incessantly. Do I know this person? No. Do I want to know this person? No. He gets closer to me & slows down. Unfortunately, my ugly white sunglasses broke. [Actually—that’s a “fortunately.” The unfortunate part is that I’m not wearing sunglasses when Mr. Honk-My-Horn-Till-You-Get-In-My-Car is staring me down.] I pay him no attention, readdress my posture & keep going. He stops when he reaches me. I ignore him. Then he rolls his window down. He’s still invisible to me at this point. He starts staring that creepy stare, making head motions, beckoning me to his car. I angrily wonder what makes him think that I’ll just stop, hop on in & thank him for the ride. [Please.]

I’ve found that I have an intense temper when it comes to situations like this. The treatment of women, even, or maybe especially, foreign women, really hurts my heart & the desire for justice burns within me. However, I know that I am only one girl & I need to make wise choices that are full of respect, honor & safety.

Yet, sometimes I fail. As he threw the car into reverse to go with me, [ya know, just in case, upon seeing his perseverance I should change my mind] I had had enough. I quickly scanned both sides of this busy part of town, taking note of how many spectators I had, & gave them a little show. I made [what some might call] an inappropriate gesture, said a few shaming words & continued on. He finally got the point & sped off, leaving me with an audience.

I didn’t feel any better. Some people here would say that encounters like this are my fault—because I’m not covered, because I’m foreign, because I’m “shagra.” Somehow, I was the one who invited HIM to approach me in that way, that he couldn’t help himself. “He’s just a man,” I’ve been told. I would beg to differ. There are many men in this world, & even in this city, who can “restrain” themselves from such behavior, acting respectfully towards women, treating them as humans.

As I talked myself out of my street rage & composed myself once again, I finally had reached my destination. In the elevator I looked in the mirror & saw that my face really did reflect my heart. I quickly put on some lip gloss, fixed my hair & cleaned up my eye makeup. I was delivered to the third floor where I was immediately met by enthusiastic smiles & warm handshakes of two men who just adore me. They had been waiting for me, as it was their day off, & welcomed me with a glass of cold water [my drink of choice]. I only returned their smiles & well wishes. I said nothing of my encounter outside—this is what we call, “aadi” or “normal.” I just gave them the chocolate chip cookies I had brought for them for their hard work.

I left their studio smiling, having been encouraged, knowing that I’m loved & appreciated, only to return back to the streets where I slap on my stone-cold face that says, “Do not mess with me OR ELSE!”, watching every man who comes within 20 feet of me. It’s a very normal day of emotional whiplash.

Before going home, I make a little visit to Sayeed,
the man at the flower shop in my neighborhood.
[His name means “Happy.”]
I walk in, he greets me like a queen, I hand him about $5,
take a seat & he whips up a bouquet of fresh flowers for me.

And so sometimes, I buy myself flowers.