Locker Room Diaries (2 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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INRODUCTION (CONT'D)

I believe it's time we tame the disparaging inner demon that paralyzes so many women into a state of broken body image and delve deeper into the question of why--why have we succumbed to this culture-induced cacophony of "if-onlys"? If only I could be thinner. If only my breasts could be as firm as hers. If only my ass could be that high. If only I could be that sexy. That curvy. That waif-like. The adjective doesn't even matter, so long as the grass is greener (and neatly trimmed into a Brazilian bikini landscape). Though these locker room lessons--whether about growing older, giving birth, getting cancer, or braving therapy--may differ, the ultimate maxim will emerge universal: Slay the demon, screw the scale, and live large, no matter what you weigh.

Through my (mis)adventures, the locker room has become my second home. It's where I shower and shave, gossip and gab. I venture to my gym five, even six times a week. (Although sometimes exercise isn't even required: I've been known to indulge in an occasional "executive workout"--a sauna and a shower--just to get my fix.) After each sweat-soaked, soul-cleansing workout, the locker room is my retreat. Inside, I and scores of other women peel off our clammy sports bras and strip down to our skivvies, our tired bodies begging for a warm shower and perhaps a reprieve from self-reproach.

But much more than that, the locker room is where I have learned about body image, the female form and the various neuroses that afflict it--more than any college anatomy class or well-worn therapist's couch has taught me. Time after time, I have listened as women chastise themselves and trade insults with girlfriends, sisters, or even their children, uttering the sorts of statements that would be deemed mentally abusive if a man were to spew them to his wife.

Having watched too many friends battle anorexia, bulimia, and compulsive exercising, I have seen the ways poor body image can wreak havoc on a young woman's physical and mental health. They are just a few of the eight million American women who struggle with a diagnosable eating disorder, according to the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders--and that number does not account for the untold others with disordered eating and distorted body image ("body image" referring to the way a woman perceives her physical appearance, as well as how she thinks others see her).

I was one of those women, too. For years, I struggled with an eating disorder--anorexia--that demolished my self-esteem during my first year of college faster than any unrequited freshman crush could ever have. I shed 30 pounds from my already slender five-foot-eleven frame before winter break through a diet of salsa-topped salad and seemingly endless nighttime runs across the University of Wisconsin-Madison's beautiful, sprawling campus. My face grew gaunt; my clothes hung from my skeletal frame as if from a hanger. All around me, chaos ensued--"What should we do with her? Why did this happen?" Meanwhile, I was busy hammering out my daily caloric intake on my calculator. I just didn't get it. I mean, five foot eleven and 120 pounds--that's what models weigh, right?

In a sad bit of irony, I was majoring in--and acing--nutritional sciences.

I am now considered recovered in terms of my eating disorder, meaning I don't actively engage in the destructive behaviors that overpowered me for so many years. Through a treatment regimen that consisted, at different times, of a variety of therapies and medications, I exorcised the demons that drove my pulse to 36 and my periods to a halt. But the inner critic will always remain and I, along with millions of otherwise successful women, continue to struggle with body image on some level.

From the constant trips to my university's drab public fitness facility to the high-gloss shine of my current health club, I've pretty much seen it all--and I suspect I'm not alone. According to the International Health, Racquet & Sportsclub Association, in 2004 (the latest year for which figures are available), 21.6 million American women had health club memberships.

This book is for any woman who has ever experienced the terror of stepping on a scale large enough for the entire locker room to read, or gotten tangled in a wet bathing suit when all she wanted was to be cloaked in a bathrobe, or desperately grasped at her towel as it slipped from her nude body, just as another woman walked behind her. It's for any woman who knows what the physical high of a great workout feels like, but continues to beat herself up emotionally. For any woman who has ever looked at another woman's breasts, hips, or stomach and wondered, "How do I compare to her?" (Remember the Sex and the City episode in which the famous foursome meet at a day spa for some R&R, only to learn that Charlotte is unable to shed her towel in the steam room, convinced other women are staring at her thighs?)

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