The Body Issue and Issues with Bodies...

This past week, one of my favorite issues of any magazine arrived through our mail slot: ESPN Magazine's Body Issue.

I pour over every photo of this issue. Friends of the blog know that my academic passions lie in studying representations of the working body, so for me this is a celebration of what humans can achieve. There have been some controversial ones (including Lolo Jones, who was the topic of some research I did last year), sure, but for the most part, it's a really cool issue.

More than any of the photos, there was one piece in particular that struck me. It's about the barriers facing (traditionally speaking) well-endowed female athletes. The article outlines the history of athletic breasts and perils of the large-chested athlete:  finding appropriate support and coverage; objectification; pain, reduction, and the opportunity costs of surgery; female commentaries; etc. I can't speak to the pain that many women associate with breast movement in exercise and the piece really highlighted the plight of the curvaceous athlete. I have friends who have shared with me how much their bodies can interfere with athletics, and I truly feel for them.

But, for me, that wasn't what struck me about the article... The fact that we have to talk about it at all struck me.

One thing that always gets me is the level of judgment that both males and females pass on the female athletic form. Women who elected to obtain reductions were decried by women for eschewing their femininity and chastised by the men who ogled at them. Small chested athletes decry nature's way of streamlining us. It's like nobody wins...

My female athletic form:  Slight, but built for the long run...

The place of breasts speaks to a larger theme of representations of the female form in athletics. Being inhibited by a gender-specific body part represents adherence to a longstanding, arcane tradition that women just aren't built for sports (and, some would argue, nor should we be). But the entire conversation is a commentary on the paternalistic view of the working body. Taken out of the context of our conceptions of "nature" - or that which is traditionally held - female athletic bodies (from Serena to Shalane) can be a rather unsettling and subversive topic for men and women. 

I've had my own body issues over the years. Having experienced about 30 pounds of weight loss since I began running, I watched my body change from a somewhat overweight, curvy figure, to a streamlined, sinewy figure. I make jokes about being built like a little boy, but despite my figure, I'm in awe of what the human body can do and how it adapts to suit needs. 

And, at the end of the day, when women celebrate our working bodies, we become liberated. Liberated from the pressures of cookie-cutter ideals and airbrushed advertising. Liberated from the objectification of judgment from the dudes in the cheap seats who think it's ok to holler at us when it's hot out. Liberated by virtue of being on increasingly equal footing when we value feeling great about ourselves, no matter how we're built. Liberated to live healthy, active lives.

Feel free to post stories, or share comments to celebrate the female athletic body! We're all built for it!

Run on Sentences: Originally Posted 24 September 2011

 In which the author sends profuse apologies to the three or four (or however many) readers who’ve gone without a new posting for so long...

I read two magazines cover-to-cover each month:  Runner’s World and Vogue. I’ve been reading Vogue since I was strong enough to lift the infamous September Issue and have always revered its artful images. Ever entranced by the masterpieces of fashions vanguard and newcomers alike, I always had inspiration for morning dressing and felt a passion for amazing design. Unfortunately (like many averaged-sized folks), I’ve frequently felt very uncomfortable with the magazine’s advertisers’ use of the ultra-thin model. Body image plagued me growing up and Vogue didn’t always help. It’s a familiar story of muscular girls seeing photos of a 5’ 10”, 100 lb., endlessly airbrushed model - her gaunt face oozing a vapid, frigid form of distorted sexuality. The clothes are amazing, but the skin-and-bones human coat hangers were, are, and will be anything but.

I will always love Vogue for opening me up to the beauty, creativity and mastery of the art of fashion. I now put aside grapples with body image to be exposed to its celebration of gorgeous self-adornment at its best. I will always get a little giddy each month on delivery day and eagerly pour over each and every page.

Runner’s World and I have a much newer relationship; however, as I perused the October issue, I had a revelation:  What would happen if that gorgeous woman on the cover of Runner’s World  put on haute couture? She’s muscular, sure, but she’s still super lean, tremendously powerful and natural. I’m no fool, she’s probably airbrushed, too, but they sure didn’t contour her figure until she looked like she had a BMI of 13.

This got me thinking about what runners find attractive. Are we privy to another aesthetic  because normal for us is sweaty, dirty covered in synthetic fabrics? What is beautiful to us?

One morning this summer, I opened up my favorite political blog and found a spin-off on The Hill’s “Most Beautiful” list, adapted for Harrisburg. A largely subjective spread of adulation from doting spouses and inside jokes from co-workers, it’s usually a good source of a few chuckles. I got halfway through the entry and found a photo of none other than yours truly. After the blushing and heartwarming, I noticed the photo my husband posted with it:  me at a race on one very hot Independence Day. No makeup. Wilted. Unflattering blue shorts. Ick, I thought, grimacing at the photo in comparison to the glamour shots next to some of the others. Of all the photos he chose, why not one where we’re all dolled up? Like from our wedding, maybe?

But then I thought about it some more:  I don’t think – even at my sweatiest – that I’ve ever been embarrassed by my appearance while running. Never worried that my hair is out of place (it typically is). Never thought about sliding makeup or lack thereof. Never worried what the size on my shorts said. It didn’t matter:  I was running.

Many of us probably grew up with some form of body issue or dysmorphic disorder wherein we became entirely too preoccupied with our body composition. But I’m certain that most of us lose that self-consciousness when we step off. We’re making something of ourselves. We’re becoming beautiful, inside and out.

Runners may have a strange aesthetic, but we can agree that what’s beautiful to us is natural. Some of us are brawny and muscular, others are compact and a bit bony in places. But we believe that we were meant to be out there, huffing and puffing through mile after mile without makeup.

When we finish a run, we may be bug bitten. We may be dirty. We may have frozen or disheveled hair. But our hearts are warm and our spirits are full, even when our tanks are empty. This is beauty.


Beauty is the contour and movement of strong muscles pushing through to the end.
Beauty are the rosy cheeks that follow a hard sprint.
Beauty is sweat glistening on skin tanned from the sun.
Beauty is crossing the finish line.
Beauty is the run. And we are beautiful.