Fat

What does being fat mean? What I've discovered from learning more about measuring percentage of body fat is that whether someone is fat or not has nothing to do with the scale, or with how people appear. Perceptions of being fat are cultural, and in our culture we idealize those wispy ballerina types, all muscle and bone, with only the smallest ounce of fat supporting our boobs.

But the reality is that those skinny chicks are just as unhealthy as someone with a percentage of body fat of 35%. Too little fat is as big a problem as too much body fat. Whoever said a woman who is 5'10" should weigh 118 pounds is a psychopath. Unfortunately, we all tend to think that way on a deep, collective-unconscious level.

A woman who appears "fat" as she's walking down the street in a size 14 dress may be more fit than I in my size 6. She may weigh 155 pounds, but only have a percentage of body fat around 22%, which is excellent. That makes her strong and healthy, even though we may roll our eyes at her when she orders a mocha and a cookie at Starbucks. I appear healthy, but my higher percentage of body fat makes me more susceptible to health problems like osteoporosis and diabetes. The reason is because I don't have enough muscle on my bones, and muscle keeps our endocrine systems working properly and our bones from deteriorating.

How we look or what the scale says are not good indicators of health. Dress size doesn't matter, percentage of body fat does. Women who are healthy and strong need to stop beating themselves up for not fitting into a size 8. Throw out your Vogue! Go find out your percentage of body fat and work with that instead. You may be surprised how lean you actually are.

When I picture myself at 50, I see a strong, muscular woman who likes to run in the evening after a long day of teaching. I do not see a weak, weary woman who struggles to load a wheelchair in a mini-van, which is me now. 50 isn't that far off, so I need to focus on strength training to meet my goal.

But at the same time, I need to be careful not to obsess about this. Once an anorexic, always an anorexic, and I've caught myself a few times ignoring hunger pains because I didn't want the calories. It's a slippery slope for me, so I need to focus on exercise and not counting calories. Although I have cut waaaaay down on sugar and upped my veggie intake, which seems like a good idea for everyone.

Here's something else I've been thinking about: Jennifer Lopez is considered fat. Can you believe that? The woman is GORGEOUS, but because she's got a big butt, the media labels her "overweight." People make jokes about her ass. I'll bet she's about 25% body fat, another excellent number, and could probably kick all of those paparazzi asses without breaking a sweat.

Need more proof that percentage of body fat is more important than scale weight? Check out this short article that explains how it works and what it means.

Understanding Your Body Fat Percentage

Tug of War, and I was the rope

On a gorgeous California spring Saturday, Queen Teen and I took our dog, Bourre, for a walk. With Queen Teen in her traveling throne (aka wheelchair) and the dog on her leash, we set out on our usual route toward the Farmer's Market.

Everything was perfect, until another dog stuck his head out from behind a fence and scared the hell out of Bourre.

We walked past a large bush and suddenly there was another dog standing right next to us, looking about as startled as we were. The dog's yard was on a terrace so the dog was practically my height and the fence posts were so wide apart the dog, big and black, could slip right through.

Bourre, a large, brown, 70 pound boxer, stopped in her tracks and jerked back toward that dog, pulling me with her. The wheelchair, over 100 pounds with Queen Teen in it, kept rolling forward, pulling me with it. I still had one hand on the handle, but that was angling the chair toward the edge of the sidewalk and the street. So there I was, pulled with by my left arm backwards and my right arm forwards. I planted my feet and pulled them both back as hard as I could, yelling at Bourre "heal!"

Luckily, Queen Teen slammed on the wheelchair's brakes. Then she turned around and yelled at Bourre too. "Bourre! You bad dog! Stop!"

Thank god she didn't freak out, panic, freeze, and then roll off the sidewalk.

And thank god both dogs didn't freak out either. They just stood there and stared at each other, wagging their tails. (And thank mom I don't tie that leash on the wheelchair).

The whole event lasted about 5 seconds. Very quickly, everything was under control, but I swear I felt like the rope in a tug-of-war. This time, the rope won.

Once everything was under control, we continued with our walk. My back felt a little tight, but nothing hurt. Whew.

Until the next day. That's when my back seized up and I could hardly walk without pain shooting down my leg. I wonder if tug-of-war ropes have that problem?

One week later, my back is better, just a little tight, but at least I'm not limping anymore. It completely messed up my work out schedule, though. I was finally feeling some results and starting to jog again after one month of gym membership, then WHAM... one week and it's all gone.

At least my butt looks fab from pushing a wheelchair 100's of miles over the last 10 years. You want a tight firm ass? Start pushing a heavy wheelchair all over town.

But try to avoid any games of tug-of-war while you're doing it.

Running

Today I ran. Literally. I went for my power walk as usual, soaking in the beautiful warmth of another California Indian summer, listening to the birds chatter loudly in the trees as they make their plans to head south. Do you think all that chatter is the birds debating who should be the leader as they fly South?

I vote for Fred.

Fred? He can't find his own nest. I think Linda should be our leader today.

Linda... Linda... oh yeah the bird with the gray spot on her wing.

Yeah that's her.

Linda, good choice.

No, sorry, Linda smacked into a window yesterday and broke her neck.

Oh, bummer...

This is the kind of thing I think about while walking purposefully down the street, arms swinging to the rhythm of my legs.

After half a mile I turned the corner heading back to home and a little voice popped through my imaginings and said, You should run. Run? I don't run. I have a bad knee, a souvenir from when I went backpacking and fell down the side of a ridge with my heavy pack on, only stopping myself from going over a cliff by jamming my leg against a boulder, which strained the knee so bad I hobbled for two months. When I run I can feel my ligaments pulling against the scar tissue. Not pleasant.

How do you know it still does that? When was the last time you ran?

Hmmm... three...no four...five years ago. I think.

You should try and see how your knee feels. If it hurts, stop.

Pondering this idea, I reached a three block section of my route just before the final turn toward home. What the hell? I started to run. Not fast, but a decent pace just a little faster than my walking pace. My legs propelled me forward and my arms fell into the rhythm naturally and I suddenly remembered running like this when I was 12 years old.

I loved to run back then. I loved the freedom and the speed, that sense that you could outrun any trouble that might come at you. I ran all over town, just because I could, not caring what I was wearing or where I was going. Feeling my heart pound and my legs hit the pavement was all I needed to feel strong.

Half way down the street, I suddenly realized it had been 30 years since I ran like that. Oh my God, this hurts! I can't breath! Why am I getting nauseous? Who's bright idea was this anyway? My breath rasped through my nose and mouth and my heart pounded against my ribs as if demanding to know what the hell I was doing. But my legs kept the pace and I refused to stop until I reached the end of the street.

Against my body's protests, I made it and then slowed my pace back to a brisk walk toward home. I was almost to my house before I could catch my breath again.

How's your knee? that little voice in my head asked.

I tuned into my right knee as I walked, waiting to feel that pulling on scar tissue pain. Nothing. My knee was fine. No pain, no ache, not even a twinge. Weird. I figured there should be something to remind me I injured it.

You hurt it 22 years ago. Maybe you're healed.

Maybe I am. But if I am, I don't have any excuse not to run again, other than the fact that running feels awful and only psycho masochists love it. I really doubt I'll ever do it again.

Or will I?