So I just reblogged a thing about how fat people are treated in sports, and this seems as good a place as any to tell a PE trauma story.
Disclaimer: I'm not what most people think of when they say "fat woman". I've been told all my life that I'm too large to exist, of course, as nearly every woman in the English-speaking world has, but I'm on the upper end of the size range for most clothing companies that market to "standard size" women in my age range. So calling myself fat seems a bit like stolen valor (stolen trauma?), but if I had to describe myself in one of my books, I'd use words like "stout" or maybe "pudgy", mostly because I'm slightly shorter but no narrower than my personality leads people to expect. Someone being creepy might write phrases like "soft curves" or "acres of creamy skin". Me, I think it's more helpful to say I'm about 5'5", I've got what my mother insists on calling "childbearing hips", and I was 12 years old the first time strange men in public screamed at me to show them my boobs.
There's a fair bit of me, but if I'm the largest woman in the room I've usually taken a wrong turn.
Anyway, I've more or less always been a very slightly upsized human for my age, and that was also true in high-school PE class. I refused to dodge PE despite the MANY remarks made about my body because I'm pretty sure I have "fuck you, haters" engraved on my bones, but one person who was extra hard to get around was the actual teacher. Because she was somehow convinced that I "wasn't trying" when I ran the mile, because my times didn't improve.
Now, I am a dogshit runner. Always have been. Even when I was doing it for fun for several years, I was total crap. I have a long waist and therefore less leg than usually goes with my meager height, and while I am descended from people who walked across vast steppes, carrying their children and their lives on their backs to escape the wrath of tsars, none of them fucking ran while they were doing it. You don't usually escape a tsar by running, because running makes you tired before you get to the edge of his territory. You escape a tsar by walking and walking and walking and refusing to fucking stop until you're somewhere where no one recognizes your language or has heard of whatever the fuck a tsar is. I can walk for days, but I cannot run for shit, whether I try or not.
So my teacher telling my straight-A ass that my "low effort" on the mile was why I'd be getting the first B of my overachieving life? That was a PROBLEM.
(Also, my parents would kill me. An A was the only passing grade in my family.)
Luckily for me, that was when we hit the weight-training unit.
Most of the girls in the class didn't even want to HAVE weight training, because something something femininity, but I shut up and hit the bench press because I hated most of PE equally and, again, "fuck you, haters" was inscribed on my bones.
Except this time, unlike every other time I shut up and tried harder in PE, something happened.
I started getting stronger. I started upping my weights. I added plates to my bench while half the other girls were still pressing the bar and complaining about it. By the time we finished the unit, I had one of the highest maximum bench-presses in the class, just behind a really hard-core competitive swimmer who had been weight training for years. They wrote my name and maximum on the gym wall in ballpoint, right under hers.
I was doing all the same exercises as most of the other girls in the class ... but I ended up able to pick any one of them up and walk away with her after a few weeks.
After that, the PE teacher pulled me aside with a shocked expression and asked, "Are you really trying as hard on the mile as you are in the weight room?"
"Yes," I snapped back. "It's just that it only works in here."
The next time we ran the mile, I pushed myself so hard I collapsed and vomited at the finish line. It was the fastest I've ever run a mile in my life, and the time was a wildly unremarkable 10 minutes, 47 seconds. I'd shaved maybe ten seconds off my usual time, which hovered around 11 minutes.
The teacher apparently put together the name on the weight-room wall and the puke on the grass and gave me my goddamn A. It didn't stop her from giving me shit the following year, but at least after that my murderous glare was slightly more effective.
Point is, the lesson I learned that my teacher clearly did not is: different bodies are built for different things, and not nearly enough people understand that. Nothing is going to give me the body type of an Olympic sprinter or a WNBA star. I have about the same body shape my mother and grandmother had at my age, and I routinely surprise grocery clerks with my ability to pile all my groceries into one reinforced bag, sling it onto my shoulder like a beach tote, and stroll out of the store. I will never win a marathon or a 100-meter dash, but if you need someone to walk until I'm beyond the reach of the tsar, and carry my worldly goods with me, I'm your gal.
Unless my knee gives out. Fucking middle age.
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Sometimes I like to be fancy. Like having my belt match my shoes even if the belt is covered by an untucked shirt. You might not notice, but I do, and it makes me feel good. I will even order pizza without having a coupon. Well, at least one time.
For lunch today I made baked macaroni and cheese with grilled chicken and bacon.
This was not a Pioneer Woman recipe.
I started with box of Kraft mac & cheese. It was aged, like good wine or cheese ("best before December 2022").
As the noodles boiled, I grilled a chicken breast that had been hanging out in the back of the freezer for a while.
The milk I used was fresh. So was the butter. When the noodles were ready I sniffed the pouch of powdered cheese-mix-product. Not smelling anything that made me wince, I stirred together all the mac & cheese ingredients.
When that was done I spread the mac in a small baking tray. I covered that with grilled chicken slices and some bacon pieces that came out of a plastic pouch. There are probably some preservatives in that bacon.
That all got covered with shredded Tillamook aged sharp cheddar cheese, aged "over 9 months." This had been aged at the cheese factory, not in my refrigerator. It wasn't too fancy for this dish because I got it at a terrific sale price.
The small pan went into my Ninja Foodi 6*-in-1 air fryer where I broiled it for five minutes. That shredded cheddar cheese got browned and crispy as did the edges of some exposed chicken breast.
It was fantastic. I feel fine too.
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are there any games you're excited for coming up :-) torn as to whether to pursue bloodborne and sell my ps3 v. something more recent...
I think sf6 was the only new release ive been looking forward to LOL . Also ooooohhhhhhh bloodborne ….. tne fabled pc port may come one day … but ill still miss it rn anyways.
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Podcasters Of Horror Episode 29 – Discussing The Twilight Zone Episodes ‘Mirror Image’ and ‘The Trade-Ins’
Podcasters Of Horror Episode 29 – Discussing Twilight Zone Episodes ‘Mirror Image’ and ‘The Trade-Ins’
Podcasters Of Horror Episode 29
Discussing The Twilight Zone Episodes
‘Mirror Image’ and ‘The Trade-Ins’
Download HERE
https://supermarcey.files.wordpress.com/2024/04/podcasters-of-horror-episode-29-e28093-discussing-twilight-zone-episodes-e28098mirror-image-and-e28098the-trade-ins.mp3
Welcome to this podcast series from The Super Network with Podcasters Of Horror! This podcast is all about…
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