I have never run a marathon, and it is unlikely in the extreme that I ever will, but in spite of – or maybe because of – this, I was absolutely fascinated by a podcast interview of a Belgian woman who, at age 55, ran a marathon every day in 2024. Every day. And 2024, you may recall, was a leap year, meaning she ran 366 consecutive marathons.
I laughed as the host kept asking multiple questions that can be summed up in a single word: how? And this woman, in her stoic Belgian accent, said that yes, it was difficult. Yes, she had pains and aches and exhaustion, which she would take treatment and painkillers and naps. Yes, she ate a lot of pasta and protein pancakes. Yes, she ran in the rain for the majority of the winter and spring seasons. Then, she casually mentioned that her immune system was compromised from all the running, which led to contracting Covid in August. It took a long time to get over it, she said matter-of-factly, Because of all the running.
I mean, yes? I was completely stunned by this revelation and listened to the host ask multiple questions about that. Oh, I ran more slowly, she said. More like four hours and twenty, or twenty-five minutes. This bout with Covid brought her daily average run time from sub-four hours to 4:05, which made me wonder if she and I were even the same species.
Well, in a way I get it. I do. I am obsessed with keeping my own various streaks on DuoLingo and Peloton, and I am not trying to set a world record, here. I get the idea of pushing through just to accomplish something important. I do. Running a daily marathon while sick with and recovering from a respiratory illness isn’t something I personally would choose to do, but I’m not in her shoes, the shoes that she had to replace twice a month from wear. And yet I can’t help but think her poor body. I can’t help but think that her body was giving her signs that said maybe we should take a break?, signs which would be mostly obscured by her ultimate goal.
I wanted to talk about nourishing our bodies this week, through movement and through what we all think of when we think of the word nourishment, food. Food, glorious food! Interestingly enough, that same podcast several weeks prior discussed the role of nutrition in perimenopausal fatigue, the interviewee was adamant in her belief that women just do not eat enough to support their energy needs.
I found that fascinating. I also find it fascinating, and not in a happy way, that women are all universally scarred from the societal pressures and images of beauty that we are constantly exposed to, from the cradle to the grave. Who among us has not felt, if not downright self-loathing, then at least dissatisfaction with our bodies and appearances? I am sure there are some women out there who have always simply eaten whenever hungry, whatever food they felt like eating, and don’t think for another moment about it, but I have yet to meet one. I have yet to meet a woman who has not at some point assigned moral value to food items, and thought I’m being bad while eating one, or has referred to a treat as a guilty pleasure, as if eating a cupcake was a moral failing and a plate of nachos was on par with an actual sin.
I have yet to meet a woman who has not felt some kind of guilt or shame about her body, and if you are reading this and you think wait, I haven’t, I have always felt great about myself, then I am happy you’re here and happy to know you exist.
It just makes me sad. It makes me sad so many women view movement as some kind of punishment, and food as some kind of virtue signaling. Because we need nourishment! It reminds me of the scene in the book Bridget Jones’ Diary where she talks about calories to her gay best friend, who asks but how many calories do you need to survive? Bridget is completely taken aback, having dissociated actual physical needs from calorie counts.
We need to treat ourselves tenderly and with love, and withholding food and feeling shame or guilt while feeding ourselves is not that.
After many decades of doing complicated food math in my head, of feeling guilt and shame and embarrassment, of refusing and restricting and saying no thank you when I wanted to say yes please, and could you give me a piece with extra frosting, I am done. I’m done with all that, which is a simple statement to make and much more complicated to get there.
I love this rental house for my soul, this body of mine, and I want to give it all the tenderness and nourishment it needs. I want my food to check off at least two, and preferably three, out of the following three boxes: filling, energizing, and joyful. There are a lot of vegetables and fruit in my world, lots of green smoothies and lots of chickpeas and lentils, and there is also cake. There are sometimes chips and guacamole, and homemade crusty bread, still warm, dripping with butter or Boursin. Weekly, there is popcorn, and also wine or cocktails. And always, always there is coffee, because where would I be without that nectar of the gods?
I wouldn’t be in motion, that’s where I would be. How do we feel about movement practices these days? My personal practices have changed a lot over the years, to become more tender and nourishing. I no longer run, but instead walk a marathon distance over the course of a week, with my fuzzy companion. It’s slow, but I get to take in all the views. I haven’t practiced the Ashtanga second series for six years; instead I have focused on the primary series with some modifications.
I get excited every morning to choose a Peloton ride, which I do based almost entirely on the playlist – disco and 80s music are immediately bookmarked – and how much I like the teacher. I will say I am much less excited to do my strength training, and treat it less like a joyful movement and more like a dreary, tedious prescription. I guess the results – non-crumbling bones, more muscle mass, fewer menopause symptoms – are the joyful part of that movement practice.
Food and exercise are two of the most fraught topics around, and they certainly have been for me in the past, but these days I’m very peaceful about them. I want eating and moving to be joyful things, and they are for me; I think that joy is nourishing, and a nourished body helps with the mind and with the soul – the latter of which will be next week’s topic!
Weekly Reading
After last week’s amazing reads, this week was Just Fine.
Cleopatra and Frankenstein. You may remember I recently read Coco Mellors’ book Blue Sisters and disliked it, so you may wonder why I would pick up her debut. The reason is that I think she is a talented writer, and it was the subject – addiction – that put me off of that book, so I wanted to give her debut a try. And as a warning, there is a lot of drug and alcohol use in this book as well (Coco, are you okay?) but it is not as graphic, so it didn’t bother me in the same way. But. You know that feeling when you finish a book and think “wait, what did I just read?” That was this – in a good way, yes, but what did I just read? I will try to describe it: the story follows a very mismatched pair, Cleo and Frank, through their meeting on New Year’s Eve and subsequent marriage. They are not compatible, they have a twenty-year age gap, and they are surrounded by a cast of characters that can best, and most optimistically, described as offbeat. I found myself quite invested in the fate of all of these weird characters, and the book itself is a bit weird, but I liked it. There’s a lot about mental health and trauma, and about healing from both of those things.
Julie Chan Is Dead. This is a very buzzy book, but I’m mixed on it. On one hand, hooray for a Canadian woman author making such a splashy debut! On the other, I think I’m too old to read a satire about influencer culture. I have to admit that it took some doing for me to get past the premise of this book, which is that twin girls are separated at age four when their parents are killed in a car accident; one is left with her mean and stingy aunt, the other is raised by a very wealthy and possibly racist couple. It took me a while to get past that detail. Why wouldn’t the girls be adopted together? If there were family members to care for one, why did they separate them? Why did they have to go no-contact between the girls? This makes no sense. I had to really move past that detail just to get into the book, which is a propulsive read to be sure. It is satire, and as such it’s pretty over-the-top, but it is cleverly done and contains some very sharp observations about influencer culture. It was entertaining, even if I was not the correct demographic to really enjoy this.
Big Girl. I don’t know how this ended up on my holds; I must have seen it recommended somewhere. However, it was a slog for me. A very, very depressing slog of a book about an eight-year-old girl, growing into womanhood, navigating the world in a very large body. It was inadvertently on topic for this week, what with the themes of body issues, weight, self-loathing, and intergenerational body trauma.
I hope you all have a delicious week, filled with lots of joy and yummy things. xo
