Chicken Killer

I was told the other day, in what was the most unique pick up line I think I've ever heard, that I have "chicken killing hands." I had been given the job of playing wingman that night and so had been talking to Joe for a couple hours at this point, and had given him a fair idea of the kind of person I am -- that I would take his comment as a compliment, like it was intended, and not haul off and slap him like any number of other Scottsdale bar go-ers.

Like Joe, I'm a little weird, so I got what he was saying, but asked him to explain anyway. He said my hands told a story of a woman who was strong and feminine, powerful and lean, graceful and dangerous (if you're chicken). It was the compliment of all compliments, and here's why:

I am aware of the struggle of women, especially in terms of athletics. Sacrifices and risks of others allow females today to run the Boston Marathon, participate in NCAA sports, take pride in their athleticism, and not even think twice. But this is not to say that the struggle is over and female athletes now find themselves in a kooshy world of pink sports bras and running skirts. There are still misconceptions and assumptions: female athletes lack femininity; strength is intrinsically a masculine quality; female athletes can't be strong AND beautiful.

In high school I got caught up, like many, in conforming to what I thought others regarded as beauty. I wasn't healthy and when I looked in the mirror I didn't see what others saw. I saw imperfection. It became an obsession and put a permanent stamp on my psyche.

When I went to college I knew this would be my opportunity to break free from everyone's expectations and critical watchfulness. I had to do something real and tangible to make this break, and so I joined the rowing team, where, it's not only helpful but essential that you are strong and heavy. (A weird sport, the physics of which are better saved for another blog.) Once again my fanatical tendencies sent me in a new direction. I worked to become strong, as strong as some of the members of the men's team. I saw my body change in ways that I had been taught NOT to appreciate. People no longer saw me as beautiful or feminine, nor did I. But I could row a boat faster than most everyone, and so for four years it was all worth it.

Then I was 22, out of college, and still lost. I had been from one extreme to the other. I had been feminine and slight, I had been strong and manly. I had conformed, I had rebelled. I was living, even promoting the assumption that I hated: that you could be feminine and you could be strong, but you couldn't be both.

So here was the next challenge I would undertake: to be feminine and strong in equal parts, to be happy in my own skin and healthy in my pursuits. To draw the attention of others not for attention's sake, but because I thought this cause was important. At this time I also started my career in coaching, so here I was with 50 highly impressionable teenage girls. Who, or what, would they have to look up to?

It started very simply with running -- signing up for a 5k unbeknown to anyone, then a half marathon with my running friend Becky (who deserves credit in this story of my development), then the marathon. What a great feeling of independence, of confidence, of strength this gave me. Miles came and went, and I realized that I still had a great deal of work to do. To get the attention I wanted I had to make a statement. What would propell me to a level of athleticism that would make people take notice? The answer was easy -- the Ironman.

I trained quietly at first, not telling anyone for some time what I planned to do. Then it started to happen, people would stop me, at the car wash, the pool, the airport, the guys at the gym told me to keep up the good work, the people at the grocery would comment on my healthy selection of food. People would tell me I looked fit, athletic, they would ask me what I was training for. And to be honest, I'm not sure what they saw -- when you see yourself everyday, you can't SEE change. But I could feel it -- swimming was smoother, biking was faster, running was flying. There were moments while training that, regardless of how I looked (ie gross), I felt beautiful! There's something about a body in motion that is gorgeous, and perfect, and not to get religious on you, but divine! And when you move into that world, a world where you are using yourself as God intended you to, you carry that purpose with you every moment of the day. What a feeling of confidence, love, perfection, beauty. Maybe that's what people see.

A couple weeks ago, I spent time with family members I haven't seen in years, long before I started this triathlon endeavor. A handful of times I overheard an aunt here and an uncle there talking to other friends and family and above the whispers I would catch words like "Ironman" and "athlete."

And I think back to what I've wanted to be all these years, how I wanted to be perceived by family, friends, strangers. Beautiful, yes, feminine, of course, healthy and strong, undoubtedly. But most of all an athlete, because an athlete, to me, was all these things. By no means have I ARRIVED -- I still fall off my bike, trip going up the stairs, struggle with the same psychological issues as always, but I know where I'm going and what I'm becoming. An "athlete." A mix of all those qualities that I've learned are NOT at odds with each other -- strength and femininity, power and beauty. I am not anything new, I am ALL the things I've ever been. I am a chicken killer.