Locker Room Diaries (1 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Locker Room Diaries by Leslie Goldman. Copyright 2006 by Leslie Goldman.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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LOCKER ROOM DIARIES
The Naked Truth About Women, Body Image, and Re-Imagining the "Perfect" Body

LESLIE GOLDMAN

For Dan, whose insight has been invaluable; his love and support, unparalleled

It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

--Maya Angelou


So I tried on my wedding dress last night. The back and arms need serious work.

--Woman in her early thirties to trainer, overheard in locker room


I wish I could just slice off this part of my thigh, from here to here. That would be perfect.

--Woman in her mid-twenties to a girlfriend, overheard in locker room


Honey, let's get on the scale and see if you've lost anything.

--Mother to young daughter, approximately ten years old, overheard in locker room


INTRODUCTION: WARMING UP

When I learned Crunch Fitness had installed peekaboo showers in their locker rooms, enticing members to watch their fellow gym-goers soap up from behind silhouetted glass doors, I was amused and, admittedly, a bit intrigued.

When 24 Hour Fitness launched a billboard campaign featuring an alien along with the proclamation, "When they come, they'll eat the fat ones first," I was horribly disturbed.

But when I discovered Women's Workout World had a "No Nudity" policy in their club's locker rooms, I was blown away.

"We deal with women from all walks of life, all different shapes, cultures, and religions," explained CEO Shari Whitley. The "No Nudity" policy, she believes, fosters a nonthreatening atmosphere, one that especially helps women who have issues with body image.

So there it was: Women's self-esteem has become so needy that although some of us feel it necessary to perform a wet burlesque show for the weight room while we shower ("Oops, I dropped the soap!"), others are so fragile that "No Nudity" clauses are now needed . . . in locker rooms.

I knew something had to be done.

That's why in the time it takes to read this introduction, I'll likely have witnessed more naked women up close and personal than the average adult male sees in his lifetime. Yes, from gazing at gazongas to poring over pedicures, for the past few years I have immersed myself in the locker room of my gym, scribbling notes, eavesdropping, stealing glances, and, when the situation called for it, just downright, blatantly staring. Some might call this sort of behavior rude--invasive, even. I call it research.

What I conducted, essentially, is an ethnography of the ladies' locker room (and in the process I raised more than a few male friends' and colleagues' eyebrows). It began innocently enough: I was just starting graduate school, earning my master's degree in public health with a focus on women's health. Having grown up in the impenetrable bubble of northwestern suburban Chicago, where taking a baseball bat to a mailbox is cause for a town-hall meeting, I was new to the city and needed to join a gym. A nice, safe gym--my only requirement being that men did not lift weights in cut-off jeans and construction boots. Did such a thing exist?

I found a great place, a relatively expensive health club with all the amenities: from disposable razors, lotion, and mouthwash to an onsite manicurist and Reiki healer. I mean, there was even a rooftop sundeck with a tiki hut and bar.

But for me, the real action was in the locker room. Within my first few days of working out, I started to take note of the insults women hurled at themselves like drunken Cubs fans, the public trading of body flaws like so many stocks and bonds. In what began as a sort of informal thesis, I started carrying my faux leopard fur-covered journal in my gym bag. Every day in that locker room, I would scribble down what I saw and heard. And in a culture where women are essentially trained to loathe their bodies, it wasn't long before I had a diary chock-full of anecdotes and stories--some of them disheartening, some inspiring, but all poignant.

Take, for instance, the attractive, slim twenty-something woman who approached me from behind as I applied my lipstick one evening. She wore a silver two-piece bathing suit, apparently ready to hit the hot tub. As she walked closer and closer, I eyed her toned physique through the mirror and felt a twinge of envy. Just as the thought, "I wish I looked like that in a metallic string bikini," traveled through my head, the woman slapped her thighs and shouted out in disgust, to nobody in particular, "Ugh--I'm so FAT!"

Was she searching for some sort of sick camaraderie from me? Or was this self-deprecating comment merely rhetorical? Regardless, the message was clear: This woman hated her body, imaginary flaws and all.

From the women with immaculate physiques who change in the bathroom stalls to avoid imagined public scrutiny to the heavier women who stroll around naked without a care in the world; from the women who wax everything--and I do mean everything--to women who shave down south only for their yearly gynecological exam; from breast implants and mastectomy scars to bellies swollen from pregnancy and asses sagging from old age, every body part and every owner has a story to tell--and a lesson we can learn.

When we are naked, we are at our most vulnerable--physically and emotionally. When we are naked, there are no Miracle bras to lift our 34Bs to magnificent heights, no control-top panty hose to smooth away the dimples, no high heels to coax our calf muscles out of hiding. Without the armor of clothing, we fall prey much more easily to low self-esteem, personal insecurities, and the scrutiny of those around us. Like animals in the wild, we are in our bare, natural state, with nothing to hide us except a measly rectangular strip of towel. Skin hangs and wobbles, blemishes emerge, hair sprouts from places we didn't know it could grow. Ah, yes, fluorescent lighting. From the self-deprecating comments I continue to hear uttered by and between women, the bodily obsessions and emotional vulnerability reflected in the mirror and on the scale, I have come to realize that the locker room is where women literally let it all hang out.
Beneath the unforgiving lights and amongst the stolen glances from fellow females, I've gained a new understanding for how what goes on in the women's locker room can be viewed as a distillation of our body-obsessed society's impact on women.

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