My body is conditioned to waking up at a certain hour regardless of what time I went to sleep at this point. Today officially marks four years of this fitness journey. On May 27, 2013, I didn't know what my intentions would be or what was my purpose in life. Here I stand, May 27, 2017, I still don't know my intentions of where I am going but I am much confident about my path. I woke up this morning with the intentions of going to the gym. Strangely enough, I picked out the same shorts that I wore a year ago today. I promise it wasn't intentional. All day, I had a host of things that prevented me from going to the gym. Some were distractions; others were priorities. When I finally had the opportunity, I went against one of my mentor's advice and read the comments from the Women's Running article on Facebook. Typically, articles that I'm featured in as of recent are laced with sprinkles of arsenic fat jokes but this was the first time I loved every comment on there. Sure, people didn't write these comments just to make me feel good. Hell, who knows if anyone even knew who the hell I was prior to the article but there was two comments that jumped out at me. In turn, I opted to keep my ass home and enjoy a rest day for a change. Is the Conversation Deeper than Inclusion of Plus-Size Athletes?In response to the inclusion of plus-size athletes in fitness being respected: Same can go for thinner women. If I hear "eat a cheeseburger" in reference one more time, I'll scream. Leave people and their size alone. - Jacquie G. Dear Jacquie, I am sorry. Before this journey, I used to be one of those people who would heckle thinner women with terrible jokes, particularly comments at verbatim like "eat a cheeseburger." If it's anything that this journey has taught me is that size matters and it doesn't matter at all. I've said it before on a previous blog post and I'll say it again: I'm exceptionally thankful for the conversation that body positivity and the visual presence of "plus-size athletes" in the media but it doesn't mean that it should exclude others from this dynamic. When I lost the weight in 2014, I was reminded of how much ridicule that you get for being the "skinny bitch" on the track. I heard everything from "you looked better with weight" to all sorts of speculations about me being on drugs and look "sickly." People suggested that I should stop running because obviously I needed permission to "pick up the hot dogs again." These comments pierce the soul something deep at any size and while I don't engage in such shitty commentary these days, I must admit that I did in the past. For this, I apologize for shaming women like yourself just for being you. I think there's so many people out there who aren't happy with themselves on the inside that finding a community to belong to makes them feel safe for five minutes, even if it's at the expense of others. "Plus-Sized", "Fat" & P/C BullshitLet's stop calling them 'plus-sized' for a start. - Pip D. Dear Pip, Baby, where was you in 2015 when all of the weight came back on? There's so much truth packed into such a short statement and then there's areas where I actually don't mind the politically correct bullshit. You're right: Let's stop calling athletes like myself "plus-sized" and just call us what the hell we are: ATHLETES. You, my dear, get it. When people get over the shock and will either grow bored of seeing titles like "plus-sized" or "body positivity" plastered everywhere, this conversation might become a thing of the past. Hell, if this world is much more forgiving, fat athletes (and pardon my comfort with the term fat) like myself will be on level ground with the stereotypical views of "fit." In the meantime, unfortunately, 'plus-sized' is a coined term to not piss off the crowd who aren't as liberated or comfortable with the fat term being thrown around. For several months now, I have talked either in private or on public forums with folks asking the same question: "How does it feel to be a plus-size/fat/larger/full figured...athlete?" What does it feel like to be a petite athlete or a regular ass athlete? Perhaps the question should be rephrased to "How do YOU feel about being an athlete?" If asked this question, I'd probably say that I feel a mixture between overwhelmed, excited and blessed. At any size, athletes succumb to the pressures of keeping our diets intact, struggling to find a balance between our work, personal and fitness lives and being human. With the rise of social media and our eyes, hearts and groins indulging in all things artificial, it's easy to forget that we have worries, fears and insecurities too. Fuck, some days, I look in the mirror and see a whale and days like this morning, I am astonished by my solid arms, Amazon legs and level of confidence. To hell with labels: People need to work on their self-esteems. When more of us do this, signature terms like 'plus-size' will be obsolete. In the meantime, I think there's a passive need for these terms. Some people need to feel uncomfortable that a descriptive word has to be placed before a title or achievement for progress to be made. In the meantime, we all need to embrace the suck so others can stop pretending that the pink elephant has been in the room the whole damn time, eating popcorn and watching Married with Children. Past, Present & FutureDear Latoya (Shauntay if you're nasty), You changed. And that's beautiful. I am thankful for your brilliance and levels of not giving a fuck about what anyone has to say about you. In 2012, you hit rock bottom like nobody's business and in 2013, you found yourself with an intimate set of friends and family after purging people who's lease was up years ago. Through fitness, attempts and failures, you are flourishing like a flower and not just any flower: A Perennial.
One day, I will wake up and I will no longer be a fat athlete. No prefix or safe descriptive term in front of my abilities. I will be able to retire #fatrunner and #plussizeathlete into an incinerator, although I'll be nostalgic of these trending topics. In the meantime, there's more work to be done, discussions that haven't even brewed yet and more people to piss off from their levels of comfort. There's more "plus-sized" athletes out there who don't even know that they're going to be hitting the pavement, swimming in deep waters or riding alongside me on the road as I yell at angry drivers because I'm a stereotypical New Yorker. In the meantime, let's work on more than just our bodies but molding our minds to respect ourselves and each other.
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My day started out pretty decent this morning. I trained my 6:30 client for a hour, whisked my kid off to school and made a bathroom run before heading to my local gym. At this point, many people are used to my bobble head jogging around with headphones for five to ten miles when I'm in the middle of marathon training or watching me lift shit up and putting things down when I'm going in for a personal death session. In my mind, I don't think I did anything different than my usual: I took a selfie, jotted down my entry for the workout of the day and picked up the equipment required to proceed with my routine. My typical corner was occupied by my cool gym bro buddies who happen to be in the middle of their regular but grueling 45 minute calisthenics session. One day, I might ask to join them, just not today. I headed over to the mat under all of the vibrant circular lights and started my warm-up. I pulled out my speed rope to get in my standard 500 revolutions and around the 200 point, I was approached by a gym bro. Please insert your OH BOY... and AWWW FUCK here. Thanks. From his eye contact from the 60th revolution, I knew he was going to say something to me. I thought my typical headphone move would be enough but nope, not this guy. He called me out over my imaginary music and I tried hard not to give him eye contact. - CHICAGO!!! (I was wearing my 2016 Chicago Marathon shirt) - Huh...yes. - You really need to jump up higher and slow down your speed. - No, actually I'm fine but thanks for the suggestion. I like my method. - Well, if you like terrible form I guess... You really aren't jumping high enough and you should use your arms more. It'll build up your chest. Did you know- - Seriously dude. I'm good. Can I enjoy the rest of my workout? - You don't have to get all defensive. I'm just trying to help you reach your fitness goals. - Oh really muthafucker?! Fitness goals? Please entertain me on my fitness goals, sir. Are you a personal trainer? Did you ask for my age or health profile? My ailments? You should really train that mouth and brain like you do to your arms. If you're going to give me advice, at least give me SOLID advice. Fuck off! - Bitch. - Thank you. I've been trying to wear my bitch repellent all morning. This conversation never gets old for me because it seems like I wear shirts to the gym that screams "I need help from people who will injure me." In turn, I will entertain you with 6 ways to tell the obnoxious gym bros to go away. Sometimes, I forget that a bulk of my readers aren't runners. Strangely enough, a lot of you read my blog for the following reasons:
Whatever reason why you're here, you are HERE! And for this, I thank you. Dozens of people asked me this question before but I received a lot of inboxes on my social networks regarding a term that I used several times while at the AirBnB Brooklyn Half Marathon course. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to take five minutes of your time to talk to you about "chub rub." Yesterday, I received my 15th half marathon medal from completing the New York Road Runners' AirB&B Brooklyn Half Marathon. How do I feel? Amazing. Blessed. Ecstatic. How do I feel about the medal? Frankly, I really don't give a fuck. Unofficially, November 28, 2013 was the very first "medal" that I received from a Turkey Trot 5K done in a local park in my neighborhood. My official first race was the NYRR's Joe Kleinerman 10K that took place on January 11, 2014. I didn't get a medal that day because it wasn't one of those races. Fuck the medal; I remember the overwhelming feelings that took over my body on that day. I was nervous, overdressed and with my Black Girls Run sisters. Despite it not being my first time running before, it was an impromptu race. I was training for the Michelob Half Marathon, which was two months away. Pardon my terrible memory but I don't remember who talked me into signing up for a race so sporadically but this is my personality. My indulgence had me at a start line with overpriced leggings that itched & chafed my existence, a heavy ass sweater, a royal blue poncho and a Uniqlo cold gear shirt. In hindsight, I was begging to be severely dehydrated considering it was 54 degrees that day. I felt semi decent for the first couple of miles but mile 4 murdered me. Whoever came up with Cat Hill in Central Park should be dragged by the hair and punched severely...or at least this is what I thought in 2014. An influx of emotions overwhelmed me and I cried for an entire mile. I remember looking over at Ethel (my 5'7 warrior standing in the middle) who I met for the first time on the course and telling her that I was considering quitting. The loss of my dad hit me like a ton of bricks so bad on the course. The fog thickened, rain reduced and the mountains of clothing that I wore slowly were stripped. I was above throwing away clothing onto the course so I dragged everything. Ethel wouldn't let me quit and once I started talking with her, other Black Girls Run sisters wouldn't let me stay in my head for long. I reached a bit over five miles and not having a name for runner's high at the time, I felt this urge to run. The course went slightly down hill, then flattening out and before I knew it, I saw the 800 meter sign. My runner friend Ngozi shouted at me to keep moving. Because I'm a closet cry baby, I let my tears shower the finishing mat and then it was over. Who cares about not having a medal. I finished a race and I was surrounded by incredible strangers who I now call an extension of my family. 2014 was a great year. Three days ago, my friend asked a group of us on Facebook how often do we look into the mirror and actually like what we see. Ironically, I was talking about this particular topic with one of my best friends before seeing this post. Mirrors. Selfies. Reflections. They tend to tell me something different every time I stare into them. Before running added a boost of confidence to my self esteem, I remember going through layers of insecurities throughout my youth. Small framed, big bobble head and so many people reminded me of my slim yet awkward shape. I'm not sure of your racial background nor does it really matter but one of the many stereotypes that resonated in the African American community during the 1990s to early 2000s was set into various categories:
In my mind, I didn't meet those qualifications and I couldn't help but wonder if God was real. If he or she is real, why didn't they give me a decent rack? Double A nuggets for breast meat didn't make me happy and my booty surely wasn't a J-Lo sized ass but you get the point. Nevertheless, I had good days of looking at my reflection and I could stare at it with some sort of comfort for a few minutes without it feeling strange. Every ounce of me wish I was writing this blog in a better state of mind. I've been struggling with responding to messages on my social media platforms since Saturday afternoon. Since I know that I tend to be a rambler, this blog post will be the shortened version of how shit went left at the New Jersey Spartan Ultra Beast. If you read my blogs long enough, this means that this blog will take you about 15 to 20 minutes to read. If needed, read this in sections with a shot of Jack Daniels. I type a lot and talk a lot more in person. I'll link the second part of my blog, which will be more of a survival guide, when I'm done getting over my emotions. Like all people in recovery at typical recovery groups, the best thing I should do is introduce myself: My name is Latoya Shauntay Snell and I DNF'ed the Tri-State New Jersey Spartan Ultra Beast on April 29, 2017. Fuck it. I said it. It's Monday morning and the clouds match my mood: Solemn. I hate writing out the entire statement so we're going to call the Spartan Ultra Beast, UB from this point going forward. The UB was the most humbling race that I ever attempted in my almost 4 years of running and one year of obstacle course racing. Some of my critical readers might think that I failed for the following reasons:
I need a goddamn race but I'm also miserably sick at the moment. I haven't touched the gym in two days and if I don't make it in a few hours, I'll be on day 3. Several folks have peeked at my race calendar and have told me that either I'm incredibly inspiring or bat shit crazy. I don't mind the commentary and these races honestly keep me on my toes. Honestly, half marathons, marathons, obstacle course races and ultras make me the most nervous. Maybe you think it's the anticipation of completing 13, 26 or even 40 miles but it's really about my eating habits. Although I am a classically trained freelance chef, I worry about my eating habits. People bomb their carb loading routine before race day in so many ways. For my novice runners, cyclists and triathletes, let me shed some personal light on some of the do's and don'ts of carb loading: Its been long enough. I have neglected this blog a bit because of my personal emotional issues and commitments as a mother. Things are starting normalize in my chaotic life. I can't think of anything better to talk about than my vagina. Don't stop reading now. You knew this post was about my vagina when you clicked on it and perhaps, you was such a pervert that you thought I'd do some typical hippie shit like show you my burning bush and proclaim that I did it in the name of art. Oh no, my frisky little friends. Sadly, this is not why I want to talk to you about my vagina. In fact, I want to be really TMI and tell you about all of the shit that people Google search about in the running/fitness community before contacting their doctors. I'll try to be short, even though I can be long winded as fuck: 1. Why Is My Vagina Leaking?So glad that you asked! It's very common for high intensity exercise nuts come across a bit more vaginal discharge than normal. The act of running isn't necessarily doing this but the intra-abdominal muscle might be responsible. Don't believe me? Check out this article on Runner's World. I Google searched for you. Don't say I didn't give you anything. You're welcome. 2. Bruh, my vagina is itchy as fuck!There’s millions of articles and blogs typed up on a daily basis about learning how to properly run and breathe. Controlling your breathing while running helps you preserve energy to go longer distances. After you mastered breathing, you can increase your stride. Your limbs can take you to great distances and in a sense, you can become a tourist in your own home town. Sure, I fell into this cliché. Three or four week ago, I practiced my typical morning ritual. I hit the snooze button four times until I felt compelled to use the bathroom. Washed my face. Threw on some running attire. Since I’m backwards, I checked the weather before heading out of the door.
Honestly, I have been working out harder at the gym for the last few weeks. The days have been blending in together and thanks to an article posted in Self Magazine, listing me as one of 28 Black Fitness Pros You Should Be Following on Instagram, my inbox and social life has been indescribable to say the least. Some of my closest friends feel like I should be on top of the world right now, as I am one of the few people who started off 2017 in such a phenomenal way but I have been quietly falling apart. Fifteen minutes of notoriety is incredible and I’m blessed by all of the wonderful emails received thus far but to my son, I am mom. My nine year old likes to refer to me as the best chef that knows and is fully aware that I am a fitness nut but he loves mom. Mom is a superhero to all of his adolescent needs but he doesn’t know how broken mom truly is when he goes to sleep or when she gets a moment alone. Frankly, I am feeling a bit hormonal. Perhaps it's Mother Nature reminding me that her rude ass is going to be here very soon. Unfortunately, I've been going through PMDD for years. Imagine PMS leveling up to Gill from the boss battle in Street Fighter III. Fuck you PMDD.
I just started half marathon and obstacle course race training a few Saturdays ago and it always feel like my body is bloating to the size of Texas. Unfortunately, this includes my beloved project door knockers that sit up slightly higher these days thanks to strength training. Frankly, I'm not as large as some women but my 38Ds like to pretend that they're F cups sometimes and I'm over it fairly quickly. I went to the gym last week wondering why I felt like my breasts were auditioning for Fight Club as I was doing my plyo workout. Around the 40 minute mark, I made one wrong turn and I could hear the tear of my neon bra. My bra suddenly went into ICU and because I had the damn thing for so long, I wasn't going to be frugal enough to repair it. I heard and know some women who wear two, sometimes three bras when going to the gym. What's a girl to do to save herself from the boobie pain? Here's some tips below: The last two days have been rough. If it’s not bad enough that I get trolled on a regular basis for being a “fat athlete,” my son was bullied in school yesterday in such a horrific way that I had to go into my level 20 raging bitch mom form. Although I am a self-professed potty mouth, I never relish in the idea of looking like a lunatic mom, especially at the expense of my child or possibly scaring other children at his school. It put me at a level of depression that I found myself crying in an attendance office, screaming at half of the administration, wondering who the hell was going to do anything about the series of events that my son has endured at this school for nearly 2 years. In turn, I forego my workout sessions, took care of family and did my best to reserve my marbles for mental health sake. My duties as a parent are the top of my list and it is by far, the most challenging workout presented to me to date. Does it help that yesterday was my ten year wedding anniversary and we spent the day exploring our options in getting an emergency transfer for our son? Alas, today is a new day and I woke up this morning seeking solace. After I am done typing this blog, I will be starting the first day of my half marathon training. If I am fortunate enough to land enough funds, I will quite possibly be training for three events that are literally weeks apart. Thankfully, I have been putting in a lot of gym hours since the NYC Marathon in November that I feel confident in my ability to take on such strenuous challenges. Last week, my 9 year old son almost pushed me to the edge and I expressed a satirical desire to smoke crack. My son, William, Jr, means the world to me but there are a few days where I used his body as a shake weight in my head. I never understood this horrific statement that my dad used to say to me as a kid until I became a parent: "The more I teach you, the dumber you get!" - Leon Richardson, Dad Typically, this statement was followed up with chain smoking and watching one strange vein pop up on the left side of his face. Miraculously, even in the dead of winter, you could see pools of sweat dripping down his face as his face would literally go into this strange hue of red. If he smiled, I knew I was already in danger. Unfortunately, like most children, I had amnesia within two minutes and my dad would bitch smack my soul to Jesus' door and give me the typical 1960 - 1990s song, playing on his favorite instrument, the belt, and sing sweet nothings of 'didn't I tell you to do what the fuck I said..." My ass was the hand that the tambourine would tap to every beat. Ah, modern day society might consider that to be child abuse. I prefer to avoid catching a homicide charge on behalf of my child because I actually love him. On days when I feel myself having an Ike Turner moment, I use the gym as my rehab. Perhaps you are severely traumatized reading this blurb or nervously chuckling because you have a similar story, hopefully not traumatic. You might be wondering what the hell this has to do with my fitness journey, the joys of running, culinary work or anything in relation to what I typically talk about on my blog. Well, I wanted to give you my top five reasons why working out is my form of catching a homicide charge. I promise you weight loss is not on this list. Read and weep. Happy Valentine's Day, my fellow fatties (or thin mints). Just in case you couldn't notice, I'm long winded in my blog posts. I am in love with typing sarcastic rants about everything I'm passionate about, especially when there's a lesson to be learned. Here's today's lesson: Telling me that I'm not fat doesn't mean... I'm 220 lbs. in both images by the way...and I'm fat. So what.
I've been feeling like a double agent for a week now. I was completely loyal to my Planet Fitness membership but now I find myself feeling like I'm cheating. I walked past the location, although taking me out of my way, just to see the locals. At the moment, I refuse to part with the Barney reminiscent colors of that membership and will keep Blink Fitness and Planet Fitness. If there was a hashtag for this, I'm sure it would go under #firstworldproblems or #gymproblems. Nevertheless, I managed to pack everything but my sneakers Friday morning and found myself making up curse words for the commute back home at 6am, practicing for the unofficial audition as an extra on Disney on Ice. Obviously people in my neighborhood could give two bits of a shit about shoveling. After almost making my 9 year old a cold case on Law & Order, I made it to the gym somewhere around 9am. I followed my very mundane routine: Assessed the gym, looked at my notebook to see the exercises that I planned out for the day, took a selfie and started my workout. I couldn't help but notice a few guys staring at me. Coincidentally, I just finished writing a blog not even the night prior about The Fat & Skinny of Gym Anxiety and here goes these gentlemen transitioning from subtle stares to blatant gawking. Perhaps they were looking at my ass or it was my imagination again. Nope. One of the members of Boyz II Hobos felt like it was imperative to interrupt my time on the battle ropes to pick my brain: Yesterday, it was 64 damn degrees in New York City. It's February folks. FEBRUARY! Well, I guess mother nature was going through hot flashes and decided that she wants to remember that it's winter. It's presently in the 30s and dropping. I woke up at 4:45AM to a winter wonderland. It's the most beautiful bipolar shit that I ever saw in my life but it'll be just like my personality in 12 hours: messy, looking like dog shit but still persevering. Nevertheless, I took my 5'3, 220+ pounds of excellence to the gym at 6ish this morning and was semi delighted to see only a few people there. My mood is much lighter when there's not that many folks in the gym. If there's too many people, my anxiety spikes and it takes me 15 - 20 minutes to get out of my head for my workouts unless I have a buddy tagging along with me. Doesn't phase me much when I'm training a client, strangely enough. You would think that a self professed potty mouth with a degree in profanity would not be anxious about going to the gym at this point. Well, I do. I'll share some of my personal issues, along with a combination of ones that I heard over the last four years. |
Latoya Shauntay SnellFor my pretentious ass bio, check out the about me page but for anyone interested in who I really am, make me a good meal at your house and I'll tell you a dope ass story. If you want to donate to my one woman operation, please feel free to donate below. All funds will help me keep the blog running smoothly.
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