(editor's note: Don't be fooled by the title, I didn't get a manicure. That's tomorrow. However, I would like to welcome a new, talented author to the FitSights family — the aptly named 'FitChick' aka Alicia Montalvo. Not only is she a veritible wordsmith who can give me a run for my money with use of big words that I don't even know the meaning of, but she also has a distinct, humorous writing style that I think you'll all enjoy. Or at least I will. So stay tuned for somewhat regular installments from Alicia, and remember that you're allowed to comment on any of the posts here in the Eye of FitSights — hint, hint.)
My whole life my parents have supported me in everything. When I was a tap dancer they drove me to every class. When I was an athlete they were at every game. When I played the violin they were at every concert. When I was a figure competitor… I didn’t invite them to any of my shows after my first one.
I couldn’t stand my mother incessantly picking at my eating habits. I couldn’t stand my father telling me I spent too much time at the gym. I couldn’t stand either one of them telling me my actions weren’t feminine. And I certainly couldn’t stand the obviously disgusted looks on their faces at my first show.
Granted my parents still live in 1960s Puerto Rico and their view is slightly exaggerated, but this is typical of society’s view of women in the sports of bodybuilding, fitness and figure. There is such a negative stigma attached to women who not only like to pump iron, but look like they do, too. We are expected to fit the mainstream mold of what beauty is, but society has not taken into account the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
For example, if I were a dude (which some would argue I practically am) I would much rather look at magazines like Oxygen or American Curves as opposed to Maxim or FHM; all of which I read for the articles. I just find the crackhead-anorexic look to be both simple and obsolete. I like my models to appear as though they could throw down; be a formidable opponent in the bar fights I instigate on a regular basis. Though I’d be afraid of killing a Maxim model in a fight, I know we’d never come to fisticuffs because I could outwit her using a candy bar and a toilet.
There’s nothing attractive or supremely feminine to me about a woman who exchanged her last ten meals for three hours of cardio and a little bit of plastic surgery. I don’t aspire to look like I belong in the eating disorder ward of the hospital I volunteered at as a teenager. Rather, I look up to the women who structure their days around fitness and have balanced careers and personal lives. Now that is beautiful.
Luckily, over the past few years the transition in the media has demonstrated a shift towards a more toned, curvaceous model. This is probably resulting from a shift in the societal ideal. Perhaps one day it will not only be socially acceptable to be muscular, but also encouraged and possibly even the new ideal of femininity.
So in the end, I lift like a dude and my parents don’t like it. I acquired the nickname, “The Gay Bodybuilder” in college; ironic considering I’m neither gay nor a bodybuilder and that the name came from a lesbian. Nine times out of ten I’m the most jacked chick in the gym and the one time I’m not, I’m still the most hardcore. But it’s okay because I always have a manicure.
Maybe I don’t fit the mold for “beautiful”. Maybe I’m not “masculine” or “gay”. Maybe I’m okay being jacked with a manicure. Maybe, when all is said and done, I am simply ahead of my time.
And if you don’t agree, I’ll beat you up.
My whole life my parents have supported me in everything. When I was a tap dancer they drove me to every class. When I was an athlete they were at every game. When I played the violin they were at every concert. When I was a figure competitor… I didn’t invite them to any of my shows after my first one.
I couldn’t stand my mother incessantly picking at my eating habits. I couldn’t stand my father telling me I spent too much time at the gym. I couldn’t stand either one of them telling me my actions weren’t feminine. And I certainly couldn’t stand the obviously disgusted looks on their faces at my first show.
Granted my parents still live in 1960s Puerto Rico and their view is slightly exaggerated, but this is typical of society’s view of women in the sports of bodybuilding, fitness and figure. There is such a negative stigma attached to women who not only like to pump iron, but look like they do, too. We are expected to fit the mainstream mold of what beauty is, but society has not taken into account the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
For example, if I were a dude (which some would argue I practically am) I would much rather look at magazines like Oxygen or American Curves as opposed to Maxim or FHM; all of which I read for the articles. I just find the crackhead-anorexic look to be both simple and obsolete. I like my models to appear as though they could throw down; be a formidable opponent in the bar fights I instigate on a regular basis. Though I’d be afraid of killing a Maxim model in a fight, I know we’d never come to fisticuffs because I could outwit her using a candy bar and a toilet.
There’s nothing attractive or supremely feminine to me about a woman who exchanged her last ten meals for three hours of cardio and a little bit of plastic surgery. I don’t aspire to look like I belong in the eating disorder ward of the hospital I volunteered at as a teenager. Rather, I look up to the women who structure their days around fitness and have balanced careers and personal lives. Now that is beautiful.
Luckily, over the past few years the transition in the media has demonstrated a shift towards a more toned, curvaceous model. This is probably resulting from a shift in the societal ideal. Perhaps one day it will not only be socially acceptable to be muscular, but also encouraged and possibly even the new ideal of femininity.
So in the end, I lift like a dude and my parents don’t like it. I acquired the nickname, “The Gay Bodybuilder” in college; ironic considering I’m neither gay nor a bodybuilder and that the name came from a lesbian. Nine times out of ten I’m the most jacked chick in the gym and the one time I’m not, I’m still the most hardcore. But it’s okay because I always have a manicure.
Maybe I don’t fit the mold for “beautiful”. Maybe I’m not “masculine” or “gay”. Maybe I’m okay being jacked with a manicure. Maybe, when all is said and done, I am simply ahead of my time.
And if you don’t agree, I’ll beat you up.
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