When I was in ninth grade, I had the hottest teacher in the building as my math teacher. Aside from her rockin’ body, she was kind, genuinely caring, smart, and funny. I wanted to be her. That woman had the ability to give a future-English teacher a love for math. I was lucky enough to have her as a teacher for another course when I was a junior. It was that year that she inspired me on a whole new level.
I remember the first day of school when Ms. O went over the normal first day mumbo-jumbo. Rules, expectations, “Take my class seriously,” blah, blah, blah…same shit I say every year to my kids. Then she, like so many of us teachers do, moved on by sharing a little about herself. Ms. O told us that she had recently competed in what was called a figure competition. All year she talked about how much hard work it was, about how much she missed Reece’s Puffs cereal during her training, and how proud she was of her accomplishment. Clearly, the part about the hard work, needed dedication and discipline didn’t sink in to my adolescent brain. I wanted in. I knew I’d compete in a figure competition someday too. Once I had a gym membership and was out of my mom’s house and her fantastic Paula Deene-like kitchen. And once I knew what the hell I was doing.
A few years later, as a sophomore in college, my urge to enter the secret subculture of bodybuilding reemerged. I was a Resident Assistant (aka, “floor mom” in the dorms…excuse me, residence halls) and a very friendly, kind, and pretty cute bodybuilder lived in my building. Malcolm didn’t live on my floor, but somehow every RA in the building knew who he was. Maybe it was his hanging out at the front desk so much, maybe it was his welcoming Wyoming personality, or maybe it was just because he was the kind of guy who knows the entire campus. Whatever the case may be, he and I talked fitness. I shared with him my hidden desire to compete. As a member of the College of Kinesiology and Health (or was it the College of Business? Whatever), and a workout buff, he agreed to train me!
I was ecstatic. I began researching and researching and researching competitions for college-level girls in the figure competition arena. Turns out, Wyoming is not a haven for…well…much of anything other than cowboys. Whatever, I thought, I’d find something eventually; just get me trained!
I met with Malcolm one disgusting six-AM morning in the student union where he showed me the lifting plan he had created for me.
That was it. He left for the gym or class, or whatever, and I went back to bed.
Later that day, I looked at the plan my sensei had given me. What. The. Fuck. Is a skull-crusher? Is that even safe? I’m really meant to crush my skull? Fine. To Google I went. I learned what a skull-crusher was (not nearly as scary as they sound!), along with a few other of the oddly-named exercises I was intended to know, perfect, and carry out…on my own.
Finally, I got the courage to go to the gym. Hey, I had been there many times as a freshman in an effort (and success) to lose my freshman-fifteen. I may have stuck to the weights circuit machines and the stationary bike where MTV was on all day long, but that didn’t matter; I knew my way around the university’s gym!
Future-Rock-Star-Body-Lifting-Plan in hand, I walked past my familiar bikes, past whatever crap was on MTV, and past my beloved circuit machines. In a few short steps, I was in the land of the off-season male athlete. I was in the free-weights zone. Ho-ly shit.
I found myself surrounded by dudes with lifting gloves. What had I gotten myself into? Fuck it. I can do this shit. Give me a ten-pound dumbbell. Down I went, on the bench, to officially crush my skull. I think I did five by the time I decided all the glove-wearing guys were watching and judging me, the idiot chick who thinks she knows what the hell she’s doing, but really just looks ridiculous, and went back to MTV and the bike.
And that was it for my training.
Two years later, I had graduated college, gotten married, and moved to Arizona. All in less than eight weeks. A year after that, I had regained the freshman fifteen and found an extra five or so. I was working as a first-year teacher in what had to have been the worst school in the nation and ate every stress and feeling I encountered. On top of that, I was a newlywed…gaining weight was expected.
About two weeks shy of my husband and I’s first anniversary, the Air Force sent him to Korea. Because he had follow-on orders to Germany, we decided that I would move back home to Colorado to be close to both of our families before we spent three years thousands of miles away from them.
When I arrived to Colorado, I decided that something needed to change. For the first time in the year I had been an Air Force wife, I realized that there are gyms on base. I also realized that I could go to these gyms AND attend the free exercise classes. To zumba I went. And with zumba I fell in love. Before the start of the next school year, I lost a few pounds and found a smidgen of confidence.
Intrigued by this free-of-charge, totally-open-to-me gym I had just discovered exists on every military installation, I began looking at the websites of all the gyms at all the bases in Colorado Springs. Man, did I have options! One day, I stumbled upon Fort Carson’s gyms’ website. Shut up. Every gym on this post offers free personal training? In an instant, every fleeting dream of training for a competition came flying back. My husband is gone, I’m living on my own, the only person I need to worry about feeding is me (goodbye Steve’s beloved mac’n’cheese!), and I don’t need to worry about being home to spend time with anyone. In this year, I thought, I could finally achieve my goal.
I made my first appointment with Robyne for September 1, 2010. On day one, she weighed me (164 lbs.), measured my body fat percentage (27.4%), and kicked my ass. I shared with Robyne my hopes of competing in the spring, and apparently, she was ready to work from the get-go.
To the gym we went…but this gym was different…all my beloved circuit machines were off in a small room by themselves, and the only TV was upstairs with the cardio equipment I would never see. Clearly, this would be a new experience. Fuck.
Robyne had planned for me to do a series of exercises with the TRX ropes, which would last about an hour. Twenty-five minutes in, I was nauseous and light-headed. Forgivingly, Robyne cut our appointment short and sent me home to drink Gatorade and eat. I lay on the bench in the locker room for ten minutes before I was able to leave the gym that day. I couldn’t breathe, I was sick, and it sucked. Even worse, I had only used my bodyweight to work out. If only my body weight were less, this would be easier, I thought.
A few days later, I went back to see Robyne. I was sore, but better hydrated, and more prepared. I stayed the whole hour and did everything she had planned for me. I couldn’t move the next day, but I didn’t care…too much.
I continued to see Robyne (and to zumba…yeah, it’s a verb.) twice a week for a few weeks. After a month, I had lost five pounds. Five pounds. I remember driving home after that weigh-in and doing the math in my head. If I could lose five pounds a month, and trained for six months, I could lose thirty pounds. “Holy shit!” I yelled to myself in the car, thirty pounds?! That’s fucking nuts! Bring it!
I don’t remember ever being so excited about my potential. For anything. Ever. Thirty pounds! Wow.
Shortly after my excitement for my potential reared its head, I found a cardio partner. Anna was a co-worker who wanted to lose weight and tone up. She also was a crazy woman who went running at the gym at 5:00 each morning. Obviously, I had no choice but to join her. We ran, jogged, and walked (on the days—there were many of them—that my insides took longer to wake up than the rest of me and I had insane side-cramps) almost every morning together. We bonded, and I found a supporter and a best friend.
As I continued on my workout journey, my meetings with Robyne went from twice a week to three times a week, and then to four times a week. I was lifting like a mad woman, benching sets of 125, and loving every compliment I’d get on my increasingly awesome progress. I reveled in the “You are so skinny” comments, but tortured myself over every miniscule flaw that only I was able to detect.
After six months of training (and INSANELY strict dieting), I had lost those thirty pounds, but I was in no way competition-ready. I did, however, decide I was going to compete two months later.
I found Ms. O on Facebook (where else?) and told her what I was doing and that she was my inspiration. She graciously offered to help. One spring evening, I went to her house and stripped into my bikini in her living room while she, and her competition-judge boyfriend, commented on my progress and tried to teach me the required poses for a figure competitor. Within fifteen minutes of being at Ms. O’s house, her boyfriend looked at me and said, “You’re bikini.” He told me that my shoulders would take extra months of training to get where they should be. But he also told me that I had the natural build to be a bikini competitor, and that he thought I would be ready to compete and place within a few weeks. Sold! I officially changed my goal from being a figure competitor to a bikini competitor. Still part of the bodybuilding family, and still a lot of work. This was a change I was happy to make and am damn glad today that I did.
I fake-tanned daily, lived in the gym, weighed every piece of food I ate, and fought with my husband. it was hard for me to understand, because I was so wrapped up in it, but this sport that I dove into is possibly one of the most selfish, and time-consuming things a person can participate in. Steve didn’t get that I was working on a years-long goal, and I didn’t know it about myself to explain that I was immersing myself in this in order to cope with being away from him. Plus, he liked me just fine when I was heavier, and didn’t see a need to lose any weight. So my working so hard at this seemed, to him, as my being too insecure—which was very frustrating for the man who married me just as much for my flaws as for my perfections. I think really, a part of him was afraid of losing me to the gym.
But I digress.
I spent an absurd amount of money on a competition bikini (and inserts for the top…I had gotten so skinny that my sports bras were loose), clear hooker heels, fake eyelashes, fake nails, and new make-up to match my future-stage-ready tanned skin.
I look my heels and short-shorts to the gym a few days a week so I could practice my walk and poses in the mirror-lined yoga room. I analyzed, I scrutinized, but I also stared. I was hot!
Just a few weeks away from my competition, Steve came home. He was wildly unhappy with the Air Force and his experience in Korea, and so he applied for, and was granted, early separation. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to support me. I wanted him to think I was a hot as I did.
He was proud of my goal accomplishment. He supported me doing what I set out to do. He thought I needed to eat.
On the day of my competition, I weighed 119 pounds and had 10.2% body fat.
I was nervous as fuck. I walked on to the stage and the bright lights hit me hard. I didn’t know what I was doing. Thank God, I wasn’t the first girl to step forward; I had someone to watch! When my number was called, I walked forward, did the poses I practiced so many times in the yoga mirrors, and went back to my spot.
I forgot to flex.
As a bikini competitor, you don’t do the traditional bodybuilder flexing poses. You’re supposed to stand, very Victoria’s Secret model-like, and flex every muscle in your body at once. You stand there, look toned as shit, and hot, turn around (make sure your butt sticks out…Fredericks of Hollywood model-like), and do the same so the judges can see your backside.
With the morning judging over, I was free to go. My family and I went out to lunch where I had a dry salad and water, and watched them eat pizza. I went home to nap, then a few hours later, had to go back to the competition site for the evening show. (This is where competitors are introduced to the audience, there’s background music, colorful stage lighting, and an actual sense of it being a performance.)
Upon taking the stage for the second time, I felt better. I knew what I was doing. However, the judging was already done; this time was just for announcing the winners. Whatever. When I was introduced, I went up, did my Victoria’s Secret/Fredericks of Hollywood moves again, but this time, I flexed. I flexed like nobody’s business. My body was shaking. And I flexed every millisecond I was on that stage. Even if it was too late, I wanted to do it right. The next day, I didn’t move. I flexed too hard.
Somehow, without flexing during the judging, I took third place out of five. I was disappointed, but I was proud.
After the scoring was announced, Steve, a few friends and I, went to Red Robin to celebrate. During the five minute drive to the restaurant, I ate the Take-5 that my mom had “I’m so proud of you”-gifted me. I love Red Robin. I love everything about it. And I don’t think I’ve ever eaten as many fries as I did that night. I gorged. I ate everything I ordered despite everyone’s warnings to take my transition back to normal-human eating slowly. And so it began. My downfall.
