Books, beauty and the sight of blood

Yesterday I read two books. The second was the new novel by Sarah Addison Allen- The Peach Keeper. I'm usually too pretentious to admit that I like Allen's writing, which is romantic magical realism set in the American south. Her novels are light and fluffy and easily consumed in a single sitting. I usually love them. They involve magic food, family curses, ghosts, psychics, sisters and best friends. Her characters generally don't conform to typical beauty standards, and she addresses issues of class tensions, teenage bullying, eating disorders, self-injury and unwanted pregnancy. Unfortunately, the glaring omission of any characters of color, an omission which becomes more and more problematic with each subsequent book (I can accept one book, but she's written four now and there hasn't been a single non-white character in any of them) as well as the increasingly predictable story lines are starting to become too distracting for me to enjoy her writing even as simple escapism.

The first book I read yesterday was Andi Zeisler's Feminism and Pop Culture. This book is an engaging look at the relationship between popular culture and the feminist movement(s) since the 1940's. I learned a number of things and, more importantly, looked more earnestly at my own relationship with modern feminism. I have my problems with the second-wave's preference for white, middle-class, straight women's rights, but I cannot deny that I feel more protective of that generation of feminists than many women my age. They weren't perfect, but they also weren't the man-haters that so many men (and a truly depressing number of women) continue to describe them as. One thing I will give Allen credit for is her female characters, particularly the way she depicts female friendship. Granted, she kind of ruins this all by happily coupling up literally every female protagonist by the end of every story (Finding a man to love you = ultimate win!) But before they settle down with their WASP-y true loves, her characters usually find ways of transcending trauma, class differences and the pervasive culture of competition and suspicion of other women to find friendship with other women, or at least to better understand and connect with their mothers or sisters or grandmothers. So she's not ALL bad.

Anyway, Zeisler's book has also gotten me thinking about my own drive to get back into shape. How much of my vain desire to be physically attractive is because I believe pop culture when it tells me what beauty is and what I need to buy to achieve it? How much time do I spend at the gym worrying about how the other girls in the locker room are so much prettier and how they must think about me? I've been a runner most of my adult life. I love running, I love lifting weights, I do enjoy feeling strong and healthy. I'm not just a gym rat because I worry about how I'll look in my bridesmaid dress. I'm a gym rat because I want to be. But it can be hard to justify, particularly when I have classes to study for and a thesis to write.

Many of you didn't know me when I was involved with my last serious lover. I was probably at my most unstable during that relationship (or whatever you want to call it) and I blamed him for a number of things that were probably, in all fairness, mostly my fault. One great thing that came of this, however, was the weight training we used to do together. He taught me how to lift safely and effectively. He pushed me to lift like he did- to lift in a way women were always told wasn't for us. High weight, low rep, scary, gross, unladylike masculine lifting. I don't want to get into a big discussion about fitness here, so if you're religiously attached to the idea that women need to "tone" with low weight, high-rep exercises, well, you and my 6th grade gym teacher can go have a party together. I like feeling comfortable in a weight room full of guys, knowing what I'm doing and how much weight I can handle.

So that brings me to today. I didn't sleep well last night, but I was still going to lift this afternoon. I wanted to focus on my legs and lower body, and the stabilized bar I usually use for squats was taken, so I tried a different machine, one that allowed lateral as well as vertical movement but still had safety stops. I was not used to being able to fall backwards, which, unfortunately, is just what happened. I took the fall ok, but my finger was caught in the sharp safety hook that is supposed to stop the weights. For some one as easily panicked at the sight of blood as I am, I have a decently delayed freak-out. I stood up, reset the weight, cleaned up the blood, wrapped my hand in a towel and got the first aid room. My hands were starting to shake and I was starting to cry. I hate crying, but it happens. The girls in the first aid room were sweet; they cleaned me up, offered me stitches, and gave me a bandaid when I declined. One girl told me that she prefers to lift on the smaller machines upstairs by the track and seemed to imply that I'd fit in better there, away from the "intense" weights in the room with all the guys. I bit my tongue because you don't piss off the person giving you first aid.

So by the time I hit the showers I was completely shaken up and even more upset with myself for first being foolish and then for overreacting. Why do I freak out at the sight of blood? I think that the disconnect between my reaction to this and self-injury I used to struggle with is the lack of control. An act that used to be all about regaining control of feelings and situations that were overwhelming is now the result of accident and mishap. So it isn't just a laceration, it's a flashback to being 15 and never feeling good enough to avoid the changing winds of my dad or stepmother's stormy moods or being 16 and convinced that my selfish, arrogant behavior had killed Josh, or any of the other dark moments that made me believe this was the only way to cope. So I get a little panicky. By the time I'm out of the shower I'm having a hard time breathing. Am I being vain, foolish, and overly emotional? All in one day?

Luckily, after a few minutes of deep breathing and a couple of new bandaids from the locker room clerk, I recovered. I'm still a little freaked out about the future and worried that planning on losing a few pounds before my sister's wedding seems to be about all of the ambition I'm capable of this week, and my finger hurts like hell, but I'm going to be OK. I wish I were tougher, that I never cried, that I wasn't so clumsy and that I could run the way I used to. I wish I were less vain and more focused on my studies, that I had a concrete goal I could explain and work toward. I will probably still have days where I feel overwhelmed by little things and I will probably still get hysterical at the sight of blood. So it goes.

For now I'm going to take a nap and read a book and finish my homework.