All Bodies Great and Small

For a woman weeks away from turning forty-four, whose Irish heritage shows in glowing white skin, whose battle wounds include scars, stretch marks, and roadmaps of varicose veins, there is one thing more terrifying than opening the credit card statement, and the first mammogram combined: getting fitted for the competition posing suit. 

Yesterday, was that day.

First some backstory: competing in this bodybuilding competition with me is a 33 year-old, blonde beauty, who even after four children has the body of, well, a bodybuilder. She is lean, and muscled in that beautiful feminine way that, coupled with a smooth olive skin, makes me kick myself for encouring her to hop onto this train with me. Being ten years my junior, I knew we'd compete in different classes, but I did not anticipate how, once we trained together, my confidence would shrink like 100% cotton socks in a hot dryer. 

Yesterday we planned to meet Tina at the gym, lock ourselves in the heavily mirrored yoga room, and put together our posing routines. Later we were to meet at Fresh Peaches, a swimsuit mecca specializing in custom made posing suits. 

For our posing practice, Tina said, "I need to see your lower body too, so wear shorts or a bathing suit." 

Posing is an art. It is choreographed like a dance, and can be as exhausting as a full workout. The trick is to flex as hard as you can, position yourself in such a way that all that hard earned muscle actually shows, and then hold it for 30 seconds, all the while remembering to keep the rest of your body as tight as the lid on a jar of pickles. Seems simple enough.

What I tend to do is this: face the mirror, pull arms overhead into a double biceps pose, tuck thumbs into hands, bend wrists in toward forearms, lift elbows, glance and my lower body and realize I am not flexing my stomach, which is hanging flacid, like Homer Simpson's. 

I tighten my mid section, squeeze my quads, look back at my biceps which have since sagged, put them back in position, and then glance at my countenance. I am grimacing, and my tongue is sticking out to the side like a kid who is learning to use scissors for the first time. 

Thirty seconds is suddenly over and it is time to move into a side chest pose. The impression I have made on my imaginary judges is that I stumbled onto stage by accident while trying to locate the snack bar. 

Posing practice is important. It requires a sense of strength, confidence, and rote coordination. You can put your heart and soul into your diet and workout, but if your posing stinks, none of your efforts will show. 

So though I am not entirely prepared, Saturday morning arrives.

My young companion and I enter the gym. She is clad in cute camouflage short shorts, legs tanned and smooth, which confirms  my decision to wear bike shorts as a bad one. My winter white legs look like toothpaste squeezing out of a freshly opened tube.

I reflect on my three year-old's comment after I dressed and emerged from my bedroom this morning:

"Mommy, you look funny."

Indeed.

Posing practice is a small disaster. I mentally shrink into my self every time I look in the mirror, searching for all that muscle I have worked to grow. Instead I see the betrayal of age, the refusal of my lower body to response to countless miles of cardio, countless pounds of lifting, of endless walking lunges up and down the gym parking lot in all kinds of weather. The awkwardness of posing further shrivels my confidence, and when I finally leave the gym to go pick up the kids, I am certain I cannot face getting fitted for a bikini today. 

I cancel plans to go to Fresh Peaches and instead go home. I open the doors and windows for the first time since last year. I turn the stereo speakers toward the open window, crank up the Gourds and spend the rest of the day tidying the yard and hanging out with my girls. 

The yard, buried and frozen for the past several months, is finally becoming exposed again. The melting snow reveals the ravages of winter: a collapsed patio chair, two torn Chinese lanterns that didn't make it into the shed last fall, a Cabbage patch doll abandoned last November next to the swing set. I make a pile of debris to load into the truck and haul away. About 4 pm my phone rings, and I see it is Jennifer, my fellow competitor. I pull myself out of my cleaning zen.

She has just completed her fitting. "It was a great experience, and the people were really nice," she sounds upbeat. "But they're closed tomorrow, and she needs at least 6 weeks to make the suit."

I quickly calculate that I may have missed my window. Well, I guess I'm off the hook. There just isn't enough time for me to get a suit made then. I pull my mouth into a half-smile. There is a brownie with sprinkles on it calling my name. 

Score!

"Good news is that they are open until 7 pm. So you could still make it today."

"Oh." 

I thank my friend for her call, and mentally put down the brownie.  Then I look down at myself. I am unshowered, my jeans are covered in dirt and dog slobber, one child is napping with peanut butter on her forehead and a rat's nest of hair I intended to wash before we went public again. The other child has a friend over and they are playing Twister, content and happy where they are. 

I imagine loading my motley crew in the car and hurriedly entering Fresh Peaches. My vision includes being greeted by a tanned, toned 30 year-old sporting a bikini and a belly ring. She has a tape measure around her neck is and holding a clipboard. Our conversation would likely go like this:

"Hello, I need to get fitted for a posing suit for a bodybuilding competition."

"For bodybuilding?"

"YES."

"Bodybuilding??"

"Yes."

"Bodybuilding???"

"yes."

I look at the clock again. It is 4:20. Fresh Peaches is an hour away. I do what any one in my position would do, I call my mom. She offers to come with me (all women understand strength in numbers when facing combat situations) or to watch the kids. I change my clothes, take her babysitting offer, and on the way out of the neighborhood, stop by my friend's house. She is getting ready to sit down for her happy hour, but she throws on a new shirt and jumps in the car. Again, women understand strength in numbers.

An hour later, I pull into Fresh Peaches and take my sweaty palms off the steering wheel. We enter the building and are struck by a warehouse full of bright colors, endless polka dots, and tropical patterns. String bikinis hang upside down in long rows like festive bats, resting, wings folded. Behind a simple desk at the entrance a white-haired older woman greets us with a genuine smile. 

"Hello, I need to get fitted for a posing suit for a bodybuilding competition."

"Well, my daughter Carrie Ann can do that for you." She smiles. "Carrie Ann...you around?"

My eyes scan the rows and rounders until a figure emerges with a tape measure around her neck. Carrie Ann is beautiful, apple-cheeked, twinkling, and all of about 25. She is also big. Not just plump, but big in a way that makes her seem out of place among the string bikinis that frame the background. 

She is also confident, poised and gentle in her mannerisms. I am instantly put at ease by this woman nearly young enough to be my daughter. 

Carrie Ann is an artist and began making posing suits for bodybuilders when she was still in high school. I stand inside a fitting room, holding up a small pice of fabric, trying to decide if belongs on my chest or my rear, and she stands on the other side of the door offering calming advice about colors, fit, and style. I eventually emerge from the fitting room shivering and goose-pimpled in a sample suit, and she measures my backside and shows me how to adjust the straps.  

She senses my discomfort and tells me stories of other gals' first competitions, how worried they were that they would not be ready, and how much they transformed physically during the last four weeks of training. 

"You are right where everyone is at this stage." She releases me to change back into myself, but continues talking like a sage from outside the dressing room. "I don't know anyone who hasn't done a second competition. It gets addicting."

Rather than just a deposit, I pay for the suit in full.  The experience has been surprisingly positive, but I know myself and that brownie still have battles to come. 

I sit down in the car and my friend and I look at one another. "What a great human being! What a great place!" We drive back home awash in a discussion of how Carrie Ann's attitude AND her physique make her a success. 

My friend plans to return with me for my next fitting and pick out a suit for herself. Summer is coming and it is time to welcome the sun. It is time to see the magic in bodies, not just the perfect ones, but all of them and the amazing souls they house.