Discovering Donegal

And so, we are in Ireland.  Precisely, at the time I’m writing this we’re somewhere in the countryside between Donegal and Galway. Having bussed our way through the North from Dublin to Donegal on Wednesday afternoon, I’m taking a break from watching green fields dotted with cattle and sheep and the occasional pony in order to catch up on blogging and photo editing.  When I need time to collect my thoughts into some coherent expression, the rolling grey clouds above patchwork greens provides a calming focal point for my wild, excited mind.

img_0005

We stayed in Donegal two nights and one full day, arriving in the early evening of Wednesday and leaving late this Friday morning.  True to stereotype, it’s been rainy the whole time; on-and-off at the very best during the daytime and rather steadily once evening sets in.

img_0012

Abbey ruins provide a unique site for a cemetery, and this one actually also looks over the water.

Nonetheless, we’ve made quite a solid go of Ireland so far. I’ve even managed to find a little piece of Ireland for everyone back home on my souvenirs list, including a small token for my boyfriend’s parents so that I won’t arrive empty-handed when I finally get to meet them in October. As for my own self, a pop into a shop just off the main square (called The Diamond) called Wool’n’Things yielded two skeins of fine, locally grown-and-spun Donegal tweed in heather purple and forest green, and a pair of crimson wristlets of the same woollen tweed to wear over Pharmaprix HotPaws gloves back home in Montreal this winter.  I much preferred Wool’n’Things to the other larger souvenir shops on The Diamond proper, mostly because the old proprietor of Wool’n’Things indulged my curiosity to learn more about Donegal wool and brought me back into the storeroom to help me find end-of-batch skeins to buy and knit up myself once I’m home.

Staying in a proper Irish bed-and-breakfast is also something I highly recommend when you get it into your head to visit a small town over here and really want a “local” experience.  Forego the larger hotels in the town centres and find yourself a place like Haywood’s B&B that’ll serve you a full Irish breakfast and provide you with insider opinions on where to go and what to buy in town.  At Haywood’s in particular, an en-suite room provided us a lovely balance of privacy when we needed downtime when paired with chatting in the common dining room with other guests and the proprietors during the course of breakfast.

img_0001

Visit the Olde Castle Bar for hearty fare (like wild venison pie or the pub staple of fish-and-chips) and a pint of Donegal Brewing Co’s Red Hugh Pale Ale, or pop into Dom’s Pier One for live Irish music every night of the summer season, a bowl of seafood chowder caught off the coast just a few miles down, and a pint of more Donegal Brewing Co’s craft beer (the Atlantic Amber Ale comes highly recommended).

But most importantly, while you’re in Donegal make sure to take a stroll along the Blue Stack Way, and best be sure to take it at a leisurely pace.  Rugged wild Ireland is, after all, a place of mysteries and old ways; you never know when you might bump into them.

img_0002

 

“…for there you have been and there you will long to return.”

Leonardo, writing in Italy on the subject of man taking flight, was still right:  once you’ve been somewhere and found more of yourself and your heart outside of wherever you call “home,” you’ll always want to go back.

And so it is with Sweden.  A few days now into Ireland and I’m still catching up with photo editing and journalling, and therefore still stuck on Sweden particularly in terms of my writing.  My heart is happy to be on the Emerald Isle at long last, but it’s also already yearning to beat once again in time with Swedens’s old, wise heart.  Luckily for me, my other half is looking forward to coming along next time, and I’ll only be too happy to oblige and indulge his own curiosities by bringing him back to places in Stockholm and Falun that I found and fell in love with on my own.

After returning to Stockholm from our weekend “at home” in Falun, we spent much of our time once again in Gamla Stan as well as Djugården Island, the former to revisit some of the more interesting and peculiar shops we’d discovered on our first outing as well as to visit the Kungligastottet (the Royal Palace) and the latter to see the Vasa Museum. We were blessed once more with beautiful weather and countless more discoveries and little marvels along the way.

As we drive now through a rainy Irish countryside to make more memories and gain new experiences of the world, images of “my” Stockholm keep a firm hold on the pieces of my heart that I found there.  I say “my” Stockholm for the way it was when I first walked upon its venerable stones will never be that way again; I will return to this northern city more knowledgeable of its ways and privy to some of its secrets, and I’m sure I will always find something new to love there — but it will be like coming back to a familiar friend who has also grown and changed in the interim, and therefore Stockholm as she showed herself to me when I first met her will always be uniquely mine.

img_0042

View of Strandvägen from Djurgårdsbron, the bridge that takes you from Stockholm proper into Djurgården.

img_0049

Stockholm, you are beautiful! 

 

img_0050

One of the quirkier shops in Gamla Stan. We don’t know its name or how anyone manages to find something to buy in here or how it’s still open. It’s as if everyone in Sweden came with a box from the attic and dumped it out in this shop.

img_0048

One of my favourite window displays ever, in any city I’ve ever been in!  A candy shop called Polkagris Kokeri in Gamlastsan (Lilla Nygatan 10) combines old books, vintage luggage, and greenery with their home-made candies and confections to create an eye-catching, whimsical, and utterly beautiful display.  @gamlastanpolkagriskokeri on Instagram for photos, and http://www.gamlastanpolkagriskokeri.se for more info.

A weekend at “home”

Early on Saturday morning, my travelling companion and I boarded a train at Stockholm Central that was heading for the town of Falun.  I’m pretty sure that a lot of people who fly Stockholm, especially for the first time, don’t necessarily plan on taking two days out of their trip to Sweden’s capital to go see a town two hours out into the countryside, but we did — because a very old, very dear, and very special friend of mine lives there.

I’ve known him for more than half my life, yet this weekend was the first time we ever actually met face-to-face. But from the first hello and long-expected hug to the last good-bye and one last hug to last us until next time, I felt like I had gone home for the weekend.

img_0078

Not actually outside his place, but rather by the entrance of an adorable little bed-and-breakfast in the former miners’ district near the Falun Mine. Half of them were torn down in the 1960s or thereabouts, and the half that survived are now cosy, but rather pricey, homes for Falun families.  The horse figure here is actually known as the Dala Häst, or Dalarna Horse, and is a prevalent souvenir option for sale in Swedish gift shops.

Not only is there a lovely old soul in this town, but the town itself is also a lovely old soul.  We three spent most of our waking hours talking and walking through Falun on impromptu tours from his apartment to the Falu Gruva (the Falun Mine) or through church graveyards (the “Old Church” couldn’t contain the town’s population at one point, so sometime in the early half of the 1600s construction began on the “New Church”).  All along the way, we were walking in the middle of the town’s streets flanked on either side by quiet houses, many of which were painted in failuröd – a distinct reddish-brown shade of paint made from the run-off of the Mines that’s composed of iron ochre, flour, and oil.

img_0035

“We haven’t really seen many people…so…what are all the Swedish people doing on a Sunday?” — “Mostly…minding their own business.”

After the hectic day-and-a-half journey from Montreal to Stockholm and a long amble through Gamla Stan, our weekend in Falun really was a lovely escape that brought us right into the tranquil, beautiful heart of Sweden and her people.  But the best part of all was finally having the chance to spend time with two of the best, most wonderful friends anyone could ever ask for, including one whose heart of gold was the reason why I insisted we trek out to this small town whose heart beats thanks to copper.

It’s strange how a place so far from where you live can feel familiar even though it’s entirely new to you.  Part of the reason was that as we were walking through Falun he was telling us the town’s story, and how intimately he knows and how deeply he loves his home came through in the narrative he gave of its old, long life.  There’s something truly transformative and magical about having a tour guide with personal connections to you as well as to the town, instead of one who’s just paid to do it as a job.  The other part of it was that, having known and talked to him for more than half my life, any conversation to be had over the weekend was merely a face-t0-face continuation of a stream of chatter that’s continuously flowed since some time in 2002.

img_0027

Maybe not everyone is as lucky as I am to be able to “go home for the weekend” while on vacation abroad, but certainly if you’ve got a long haul in Sweden it’s worth it to take a train into Falun and take in the many little marvels (as well as the one grand marvel that is the Falu Gruva) it has to show you.  I’m highly aware of how fortunate I am to have many reasons to go back to Falun on my next journey into Sweden, and how one of them can give me a hug when I set foot back in this beautiful town again.  I’ve found a big piece of myself on its quiet streets and in its unbroken, dramatic sky, and I’m sure there’s more to find down the road.

Keeping up appearances in hairy situations

Summer is in full swing here in Montreal, which means the season of sleeveless tops and cute shorts has arrived. I’m going to let all the menfolk in on a little secret: all that lovely smooth skin you see everywhere during the summer months doesn’t just magically happen overnight. For most ladies, getting rid of hair and peach fuzz isn’t just a weekly or bi-weekly ordeal. It’s an obsession – to the point where whole aisles are dedicated to the pursuit of achieving baby-soft, silky-smooth bodies DIY-style in addition to such services being offered at pretty much every salon and spa in the city. And with so many options available, it’s no wonder that beauty bloggers and vloggers flood the interwebs with reviews on all of these products and services.

Somewhere in the plethora of hair removal products and techniques there’s an effective solution for every woman. From investing in electrolysis treatments to just not giving a care about body hair, every woman I know has her own way of handling body hair.

Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found the perfect, 100% foolproof routine for all the hair I’ve got from the nose down. My main problem is that I have very fair skin covered by very dark hair in a few different textures on my body, and on top of that I’m one of those women who just want pretty much everything from the nose down to be perfectly smooth. For every area where I’ve wanted to get rid of unwanted hair, I’ve needed a different method…which means I’ve had a few experiences with hair removal that maybe didn’t quite turn out how they were supposed to.

Like that one time when I decided to throw out the razor for my underarms and wax them instead. So, out came the large wax strips for the dreaded armpit tape-and-tear. What followed next was not worth enduring ever again because when a wax strip leaves so much wax behind that you end up sealing your arm shut to your body you really end up questioning your intelligence and sanity. Yes, you read that right: after removing the wax strip, I put my arm down and promptly sealed it shut at the armpit…as in, I could not move my upper arm at all. It looked like I was halfway out of a straitjacket and dancing the funky chicken as I panicked in my tiny bathroom. I ended up having to lie down on a towel on the bathroom floor with a kitchen funnel stuck in between my arm and my body, pouring shower oil into my armpit in the hopes that it would help. In the end, it did work and I didn’t have to use deodorant that day because that shower oil smelled amazing…but will I ever put a wax strip near my underarms ever again? Aw, hell no. Any kind of oil is too expensive to be used on a regular basis in this fashion, especially when it smells really nice and comes from some exotic country.

My arm hair is particularly dark but very fine so you’d think wax would be highly effective here. But this is me we’re talking about here and I only narrowly avoided repeating the great armpit incident when I attempted to wax away my arm hair. Enter the era of the epilator, whose motorized wheel of hundreds of tweezer heads evokes images of the Sarlaac. While it is highly effective – I still use this on my arms and on my upper lip – it hurts. It’s more irritatingly painful than getting inked, and when it’s yanking out hair on sensitive areas like inner arms and upper lips, you can’t really help but whimper. The good thing is that it’s louder than a machine gun so nobody will hear you express your pain and anger at this highly effective tool. (However, if you live with guys like I did when I first used my epilator, you might walk out of your room or bathroom to a living room of very odd glances and awkward silences.)

The first time I had my eyebrows threaded at a salon, it hurt so much that I cried and ended up looking like a wet raccoon. Luckily the aesthetician was very nice and redid my eye makeup for me, but it was still pretty embarrassing. I wasn’t ugly-crying in the middle of the salon, and I wasn’t even emotionally distraught when I walked in. However, threading hurts like a bitch. And public tears are always awkward, and there’s no way to make them any less awkward whenever they do happen for whatever reason, even if the reason is because you’re trying to look good for a date. But wait, there’s more! In an attempt to avoid a repeat performance at the salon, I went on YouTube to watch tutorials on threading your own brows at home. An hour later, a mild string burn on my fingers and my forehead and lopsided eyebrows were all I had to show for my efforts. I guess there are some indignities through which we must suffer in public to be beautiful, and threading might be one of them.

Then there was that time when I nearly concussed myself in an attempt to neaten up my bikini zone. Apparently posing like Captain Morgan in your tub while simultaneously doing yoga on an old bathtub mat doesn’t excuse you from the laws of physics. Luckily I wasn’t physically hurt, but even though I didn’t have an audience to witness that spectacular display of bathroom-capades my pride was significantly bruised. I still don’t vote for bush, but until I stop being such a chicken and book an appointment to get a professional wax job done I really hope the new adhesive ducks do their job.

As for leg hair…well, when you’re a girl who gets five o’clock shadow on her legs, it’s always an uphill battle. Once again, I found myself thoroughly sick and tired of always using a razor to get rid of all that stubborn leg hair. This was after the armpit waxing incident and since I don’t have thigh gaps I really didn’t want to tempt fate by buying wax strips because I was pretty sure I would end up with my legs glued shut. So, what did I try instead? That stinky, itchy, goopy stuff known as depilatory cream. I wasn’t able to do anything while I had this stuff smeared all over my legs, so I ended up lying on my bed with my legs up in the air, all the while trying to ignore the burning itch that I had to endure for the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Oh, and then when I washed it off, I realized that while itching is normal with this product, burning is not, and I had to go back to the pharmacy to get a soothing topical treatment for a mild allergic reaction to the product. Lovely.

After the struggles I’ve endured with  removing hair from my lower body, I still use a razor and shaving cream. It’s labor-intensive and has to be done frequently (though I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes putting up with a bit of stubble for one more day is highly preferable to razor burn) but I’ve come to realize that using men’s shaving products on my lady body actually works better. I think it’s because these things are designed by clever scientists to take care of Bropunzel’s facial hair. Gillette is probably the only hope I’ve got in the battle against my Amazon Bushwoman genetics. The only odd moment I’ve had with this regimen was the time a cashier asked me if I was aware that I, a female, was buying male toiletries.

Dude, after all I’ve been through in my pursuit of removing hair from all over my body, do you really think I’m okay with paying more for pink shaving cream and a matching razor to whittle it all away? But that’s a blog post for another day.

A place, under the sun, where hearts of olden glory grow young

This past weekend here in Canada was the Victoria Long Weekend.  Unlike most people I know, who skip town in favor of lakeside cottages or beach houses, I stayed in the city.  With my upcoming move to a new apartment fast approaching, most of my spare time is spent sorting through my worldly possessions and packing those of most use and significance into boxes.

However, yesterday I took a break from all of that to go visit my father’s grave with my mother and oldest sister.  His final earthly resting place is in the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery (which, as it so happens, is just across the street from the apartment I’ll be living in come the end of June), which is located on the northwest side of Mount Royal.

An old and beautiful cemetery, its sweeping expanse of manicured slopes is populated by countless gravesites.  The cemetery is so old and so huge that there are countless graves that have been left untended for years – decades, even, in some cases.  There are also various sections of the cemetery dedicated to specific cultures, nationalities, and religions, and there are even numerous famous historical figures laid to rest within these grounds.  To get to my father’s, we drive up the winding asphalt from the main gates and make turns at landmark graves – marked by towering marble sculptures too ornate and monumental to be referred to simply as “tombstones” – before driving by the potter’s field adjacent to the section where we laid my father to rest.

When we visit my father’s grave, we clear away encroaching weeds and crabgrass, and always try to leave some kind of bouquet when we depart.  Most of the time, I end up wandering in between the rows of marble markers, gathering daisies and clovers and other field flowers to bring to him – just as I did when I was a little girl.

Yesterday, I noticed for the first time in three years that, two sections over, there stands a long hedge of lilacs.  We had a light purple lilac in the backyard of the house in which I grew up, and the sight of any lilac, regardless of its colour, reminds me of my childhood.  Upon wandering over to the lilac hedge with my sister to pick a few stems to leave on my father’s stone, we discovered a new section of the cemetery:  a field for military veterans.

A monument stands at the top of the field, rising up over rows of granite plaques bearing names, ranks, and regiments.  Yet for all the glory that might lie at rest in this part of the cemetery, it is a lonely and forgotten place. The lilacs in the hedge and the carpeting of deep purple groundcover flowers are the only blooms to be found in this section of the cemetery.  Walking in between the rows of engraved stone markers, we soon saw that one row on the left side of the monument was almost entirely overgrown.

But the turf was surprisingly easy to pull up off the brass markers, and all it took was a sweep of a hand to brush away any remaining dead foliage and dirt.  When we were done bringing these stones back into the sunshine we laid a small spray of lilac on each one before returning to our father’s tombstone to say a decade of the Rosary with our mother.

You can argue that we had no reason to tend to that row of granite markers, because we have no idea who these men and women were.  We are not related to anyone lying in that small section of the cemetery and we probably don’t know anyone who is, either.  In a cemetery full of hundreds, if not thousands, of untended graves, what difference would it make to clear ten small granite plaques?

The thing is that every life leaves in its wake some kind of legacy.  Some legacies touch only a few people and that is by all means significant.  But the legacy of a soldier touches more than just a few lives, and goes beyond immediate family and close friends.  It’s a legacy that impacts entire nations and their future generations…a legacy of freedom and virtue and the goodness of mankind, a legacy of a good life sacrificed for countless others.

As I walked back to my father’s grave I felt a peace and stillness in my heart that I could not explain.  I still don’t know what it means for me, but it was still there when I woke up this morning.  Maybe it’s because I was able to touch a part of Canada’s history in such unlikely circumstances, or maybe it’s because in a beautifully strange and inexplicable way I am still, deep down, a little girl wandering in sunshine as she gathers flowers for her dad and learns how to love and honour all life as he did.

Whatever the case may be, it is indisputable that in lonely corner of a vast cemetery, picking flowers to lay on my father’s grave, I was surprised by joy…and I cannot wait to see what such joy might illuminate in my future.

The cups runneth o’er — alas, both do!

Those of you who keep up with this blog know that I (like many other women of the current day and age) have more than one hang-up about my body – and that I recently started going to the gym at long last to try and take positive control over it.  I’m learning how to do that through a program at my gym that involves working with both a trainer and a nutritionist to learn how to combine exercise and eating to transform my lifestyle into one of healthy balance.

Having been “the fat one” for the majority of my life, I won’t deny on any terms the fact that up until now, my life has not been a healthy balance of exercise and eating.  I was never really very good at most of the team sports we were forced to play in PE class all throughout school and I also used food as an emotional crutch of sorts to make up for a lot of things that were going on in my life.

My nutritionist is big on the psychology of food – in other words, what makes us so reliant on food for more than just its nutritional value – and talking with her has illuminated a lot of interesting points in my codependent history with food.  One of the first things I realised was that my negative body image and lack of physical self-confidence is, in fact, directly related to the way I use food.

Funnily enough, it’s all down to my boobs.

Nowadays, I speak of my hefty cup size with flippant and blunt humor, but it has taken a long time for me to learn how to love my boobs.  I know it’s hard to imagine somebody not loving the fact that they have an awesome rack, but try these personal facts on for size:

  • My current cup size is not sold in regular lingerie shops
  • I didn’t reach my final cup size until a few years ago
  • I skipped the whole “training bra” stage, simply because I went from flat chest to a C-cup within a year
  • And, oh yeah, I got that first C-cup bra when I was ten

From the beginning of my school days, I was always aware that I was different.  For the first couple of years at my public elementary school, my brothers and I were among the very few dark-haired non-Caucasians in the student body.  I myself was, at the time, tall for my age (I’m five-none, which is pretty short, but when you’re that height at age nine you’re bound to stick out more than just a little), and while I wasn’t always grossly fat I was pretty sturdily-built.

When mine became literally the only pair of boobs in the third grade, the horrendous trial-by-fire known as gym class became even more of a nightmare.  From hearing the whispers from my “normal” female classmates in the girls’ changing room to the heavy dismay that settled whenever ball sports were announced (because on those days, the boys used to throw all manner of spherical athletic equipment at my chest before the teacher got mad), my boobs stuck out so much that I stuck out even more than I already did with my height and non-Caucasian face.

I had always been a big eater, but not having many friends anymore at school meant that an early childhood of energetic playing with the neighbor-kids was quickly replaced by the more solitary life brought by books, music, and art.  I was also eating more and more out of boredom and comfort than out of hunger and necessity.  Not surprisingly, it was around this time that I started gaining weight quickly.

At first, I was pretty upset about it because suddenly I was actually fat and the meaner ones in my class were pointing that out, too, in addition to everything else.  But all of a sudden I was just “the fat girl,” simply because the sudden growth underneath my C-cups had rendered my breasts entirely irrelevant.  And any woman out there with a big chest will agree with me when I say that having anything render a large cup size irrelevant has to be pretty staggeringly huge indeed.

It seemed easier to me to deal with being larger than everyone else all over than simply just in one specific area, and hiding behind food and my weight became normal for me.  It wasn’t until my long—term health became an actual issue that I actually started facing up to my responsibilities towards myself concerning food and exercise, but even with all of this new and amazing help and all of this strong motivation I have to be perfectly honest.  I have to say that those childhood experiences at school made my psychological reliance on food a lot worse than it would’ve been had I grown up with an age-appropriate body, and that it’s going to be the hardest part of this journey.

Last week, though, I think I was able to get over the first hurdle on that particular stretch.  I was attempting to use the battle ropes in the way my trainer had demonstrated to me and five other women during a group training circuit, and found doing it a hell of a lot more difficult than it looked.  Noticing my struggle, my trainer came up to me and, with a firm but gentle hand, guided my upper body into the correct position.

“Your back has to be straight,” she said.  “Straight, like the way you stand when you’re proud!  And you should be proud – proud of yourself and proud of your body.”

Later on my way out, I found that walking with anything slightly less than a ramrod-straight back made everything hurt even more than it did already, and as I stiffly walked by reception she stopped me and made me look at my faint reflection in the glass doors.

“Stay proud,” she said, “because it looks even better when you’re in normal clothes.”

The Pachyderm on my Bathroom Floor

I’ve been going to the gym for a few months, and as of now I’m one month in to an intensive training-and-nutrition program that has me there every day, Monday to Friday.  Every time I set foot inside the gym, I ask myself the same question:  When did I become a gym rat?

I have always struggled with my weight and my body image.  I’ve never been slender (just varying degrees of overweight) and I’ve never been willowy (because at five-foot-none that’s literally a tall order).  Although my university years were full of grabbing meals of convenience as I went from one class to another or between work and campus, as well as eating my feelings everywhere in between, I was surprisingly at a plateau with my weight during that time.

But when my life slowed down after I took my office job, though, the numbers on the scale began to fluctuate.  They’d go up for a couple of days, then they’d come back down.  I continued to walk everywhere, regardless of the weather, and ran whenever I could, and even though my weight didn’t fully stabilize again at least it never yo-yo’d more than a couple of pounds up and down.

In 2014 I took a two-week holiday at the tail end of an Alberta winter, during which my only walking was pretty much from the front door to my boyfriend’s Jeep.  I came back from it feeling rather proud of myself for having not fallen into bad eating habits that used to plague my holidays, but the moment I stepped on my scale I realised – pretty much for the first time – the connection between eating and exercising…because I ballooned.

I’ve ballooned before.  After my first break-up as a teenager, a few midnight snacks of Ben & Jerry’s over a couple of months very nearly ruined my prom plans.  (To this day, I refuse to have any Ben & Jerry’s anywhere in the house.)  Two years of working in a pizza shop while studying full-time had undone pretty much all of what I’d accomplished during one summer of basic training in the Canadian Forces (and that’s a story for another day).  But I hadn’t had a major ballooning for a few years, and when I saw the scale after that particular holiday I have to say that I cried.

The simple change to my routine – driving everywhere and hardly walking – had been enough to make me put on ten pounds.  Ten pounds that I’ve been struggling to shed ever since April 2014.  Ten pounds that discourage me beyond belief whenever I’ve gone clothes shopping in the last year.  Ten pounds that have made me extremely self-conscious in my best dress at more than one wedding between then and now.

I’ve always known my relationship with food resembles one of co-dependency, and my relationship with exercise has always been fair-weather.  I’ve tried a whole range of things to lose weight but nothing has ever really lasted.

Everyone who’s had a weight issue will tell you that it took a huge kick to spur them into action.  I was no different.  I was sitting in the examination room at the clinic, listening to my doctor tell me the results of the blood test she’d ordered two weeks before.  The original problem had been a long, worrying bout of amenorrhea, which had started two months after packing on those ten pounds.   Now, there were other problems – problems like the phrases “borderline pre-diabetic” and “at risk of high cholesterol.”  She wasn’t throwing these out as warnings.  She was telling me what my blood had just told her.  Then she pulled out a chart and showed me where I fell in terms of BMI.  I had never considered it before – had never classified myself as such before – but I was just over the “obesity” marker.

I’d heard those terms before, applied to various older relatives including my parents.  There were other things in the family history that she said could come about if I wasn’t careful:  hypertension, joint weakness and failure, blood clots, weak cardiovascular system.  “You’re too sedentary,” she told me as she wrote on her Rx pad.  “You have to change that right away.”

I walked out of there with two prescriptions:  one for a medication that would end the amenorrhea, and another for supervised exercise.   And that’s when I became a gym rat.

I’m not at the gym to train for mud marathons or colour runs.  I’m not at the gym to look good naked.  I’m not at the gym to fit into a single-digit size.

I’m at the gym because I have no desire to continue being a statistic for obesity and weight-related health issues.  I’m at the gym because paying for membership, a trainer, and a nutritionist is way cheaper than paying for medications and equipment for the rest of my life. I’m at the gym because I want to be healthy enough not only to have children, but to raise them and see them grow up to have families of their own.

I’m at the gym because I know the kind of life I deserve.  I owe it to myself to make sure I’m around to make it happen, and I won’t let my current weight weigh me down.