Lingering over my mocha (which the barista drizzled extra chocolate over for an added touch of love) this morning, I was sitting across from a table of moms whose chatter was so maddening, listening to them was like watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians -- mind-numbing, but impossible to ignore. It was as if a script had been written for their interaction. Filtering into Starbucks, they complimented each other's appearance (which came across as completely in-genuine), then proceeded to gossip about whomever had gone to order their coffee. When all were seated and settled, each began to tear themselves apart; spouting self-deprecating gems like, "how did you get so skinny" and "I'm just fat; I'll always be fat cause I can't stop eating bread and pasta." Ladies, did you ever stop to consider it may not be the carb-loading that's responsible for your body's tendency to resemble a baby rhinoceros? Maybe it's the bullshit bashing of yourselves that encourages you to wallow in your destructive habits. Interesting that you spent the remainder of your time together idolizing another poor example of healthy habits, Oprah.
To hear these ladies mourn (tears and all) the passing of Oprah's final talk-show season, shed some serious light into exactly why they are a bitter, nattering group of bitches whose husbands rule the roost and children seem to provide the only meaning in their lives.
Sure, Oprah is responsible for a tremendous amount of positive change in the world, but she's certainly not a picture of mental or physical health; if she were, the most talked-about aspect of her entire career would not have been her constant battle with weight.
With whom we choose to surround ourselves will always have some impact on our lifestyle choices. Emulating and idolizing another daytime diva, Ellen, who spends the opening of her show shaking her vegan booty around the studio and encouraging her audience to do the same, seems like a better option for a group of women who spent the better part of an hour call themselves "fat."
Men might be conscious of their dietary choices and their resulting figures, but certainly not to the same degree as women, and if they are, they certainly don't make it apparent; the yoga room is such an interesting forum for such observation. Men will come in, balls to the wall, and let it all hang out, six-pack, beer gut, or cream puff physique, set themselves up anywhere in the room (sometimes to the right of a cute woman, whose bum they can get a good face full of in standing-separate-leg-stretching pose) and serve themselves a healthy dose of acceptance that seems to stick with them throughout the sweat fest and beyond.
I bet men don't finish class and head straight for the scale in the change room (which is totally pointless because the body loses at least a couple pounds of water during practice). We're not at the gym lifting weights, which is the only fitness situation in which I understand the interest in hopping on the scale. I could take that scale and smash it; but, it's not my studio and I don't really feel like pissing off the owner. For now, I'll just periodically comment on how random it is to have a scale in a yoga studio; maybe one day it will mysteriously disappear.
I wish the group of women who came into Starbucks on the train of self-hatred this morning had disappeared. Listening to the stockbrokers behind me try to outdo one another, comparing who made more money, went on more luxurious vacations and drove the sweetest car was (however predictable) far more palatable.
I like to think if my girlfriends and I ever have nothing better to discuss than how unfortunate looking we are and how badly we feel about ourselves, it might be time to get new girlfriends.
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