Making Sundays Bright

I kind of love the Washington Post Magazine. And last weekend might have been the Greatest Issue Ever. I still haven't read the cover story, but it does have the word marathon in it, so it must be great.

But I thought Gene was hilarious this week. I laughed out loud.

Plus, finally!, a successful Date Lab. Is that the first? I'm pretty sure it is--it is being advertised as the Date Lab we've all been waiting for.

And Tom gave 2 1/2 stars to a restaurant devoted to chocolate. It's like eating at my house except more expensive and with fewer m&ms. I wish I were there right now. The restaurant. I am at my house.

Baby Steps

I've hinted at this before, but when I was younger, I was all sorts of crazy. I had enough anxiety and body image issues to make the poor, short, chubby girls at modeling camp seem calm and at ease.

I won't get into it too much, except to say that I used to have trouble sleeping on the first floor of any dwelling because I thought a murderer would come get me. I'd spend late nights tossing with the TV on at my aunt's house thinking about someone slipping through the woods and into my room to stab me while the 4 a.m. repeat of Oprah ran in the background. (I thought keeping the TV on might protect me.)

But these days, I'm a lot calmer and more well-adjusted. I even live on the first floor of my condo building--something I swore I'd never do. But love makes you do crazy things--Wes wanted to live on the first floor to make load in/out easier.

And, despite the fact that I've been riding it almost every day since January, it only recently occurred to me that it would be really easy for a car driving on the GW Parkway to jump the curb and smash right into me while biking or running on the Mt. Vernon trail. Seriously, people (myself included) drive like maniacs on that road, and in a lot of places, the trail runs right alongside it. I'd always thought about how my bike could slide out from under me and directly into traffic at this one part, but my preoccupation with cars coming to get me is completely new--eight months after I started traveling on it. I take that as a sign of progress.

I also now willingly publish details about my life on the internet, known province of stalkers, rapists and murderers. Tomorrow, look for directions to my house and a description of my daily routines and habits.

Itsy Bitsy Bikinis

So, yeah, beach volleyball players wear little outfits.


The women who play are uniformly gorgeous, so I guess they feel no need to cover all that hottness up with, well, uniforms. I'm watching May and Walsh play the semi-final match, and so are Kobe Bryant and LeBron James. I doubt the outfits are lost on them.

Anyway, I'm intrigued by how good May and Walsh are. They are, by far, the dominant team. Last time I watched, their match count was something like 457-9. And right now they are trouncing the Brazilians 14-6. Make that 15-6.

I think it's a shame they don't play against men. I bet they could take on many of the best men's teams in the world and still come out on top. Sure, the net is higher in men's volleyball, and on average the men are probably taller, but Walsh is well over 6' herself. I'm not worried.

I read this book for a review I never wrote for the AAUW member magazine. It was about the idea that sex-segregated sports do a disservice to the best women, because they never have a chance to go up against the best competition--men. After reading the arguments of authors Eileen McDonagh and Laura Pappano, it's difficult to disagree with them.

As a former rugby player and now runner, I certainly see the arguments in favor of letting women win by separating them out of the men's competition. While Paula Radcliffe can beat her countrymen, she hasn't yet clocked a marathon time that would beat the male world record holder. And she probably never will. Winning is likely more rewarding than always coming in behind a handful of men, but Radcliffe still comes in ahead of the vast majority of men running marathons.

At the lower levels of sports, sex segregation might be a good idea, especially to introduce girls to their sport. Boys can be intimidating, and they therefore tend to dominate on the pitch. McDonagh and Pappano are in favor of voluntary segregation--they are protesting forced sex segregation. It's a fine distinction, but an important one. While the scrawniest, nerdiest, most athletically disinclined boy could try out for his school's football team if he wanted to, it's likely that the most athletic, talented girl at his school could not, simply because she's a girl. And when you look at it that way, it doesn't seem fair.

So May and Walsh might not have any interest in competing against the top men, but it might be good for their game. And it might also make for good tv. Provided the dudes wore correspondingly skimpy outfits.

The Women's Olympic Marathon

I don't want to talk about it.

Oh Jesus Christ

As I was writing about how f-ing great the Girls Rock! DC camp was, I found this on the Washington Post website.

Modeling camp? Because why teach your girls, ages 7-17, about creativity, talent and comfort in their own skin when you can teach them about unrealistic standards of beauty and how to pose like a sexpot?

As one of the campers told the Post:

"I'm going to be a high-fashion model," says Bailey Milde, a long-limbed 12-year-old from Stafford in short shorts and a tank top. "Not all agencies are going to like me, but I think enough will that I'll make enough money to live on. I have a good body type for it."

By which she means that, as a pre-pubescent child, she's really skinny and has no breasts.

I know lots of models are very young, but I also know that eating disorders, drug use and depression run rampant in the fashion industry. And I also know that reading about the urge of people to teach their 11-year-old daughters how to wear makeup and pose so men want to have sex with them makes for one of those exhausting feminist moments.

In fairness, drug use also runs rampant in the world of rock and roll. But Katie tells me her GR!DC girls got a talk on how fame isn't everything, and while I did stop a participant on the street to ask for her autograph, the purpose of rock camp wasn't to break these girls into show business or to create unrealistic expectations. It was to teach them that's it's good to be a girl.

At model camp, on the other hand:

Campers from 7 to 17 spend a week or more learning makeup tips, runway walking and how to compile a professional portfolio. They leave with a handful of fashion photos and, generally, an intensified desire to enter the competitive world of modeling. ...

After camp is over, each will meet with Cole and a parent to talk about her potential for professional modeling.

The camp's founder defends her camp as a self-esteem builder, but look at those pictures. And imagine that meeting: "I'm sorry, but one of Kayla's eyes is smaller than the other, and she's 5 pounds heavier than the average 8 year old. She'll have to go on a strict diet, and even then she'll be lucky to get a dog food commercial. Sorry, Fatty."

The campers also spend the day at a spa. I feel like I've spent too much time defending girls' rock camp. This modeling camp is disgusting, and its values are completely misplaced.

One or two of the most promising (and tallest -- adult models generally must be 5 feet 9 or taller) might be recruited to join Cole's scouting firm, Model Source, which represents models she's chosen who are trying to get jobs with New York agencies. Shorter girls will receive a list of other reputable agencies to pursue on their own. All will be offered the chance to participate in Cole's $2,000 modeling program during the school year.

"I'm known for being honest," Cole said. "If I don't think someone can work, I'll say that I don't know that this is the best investment for you."

The rest of you skinny girls, fork it over.

And finally:

Campers said they understand that the chances of hitting it big are slim. But even if they never get a modeling job, they said, they still learned valuable skills, such as how to address the paparazzi.

Because, obviously, handling the paparazzi is a skill all young women should cultivate. You know how we treat those who can't.

We Salute You

Earlier today I went to the 9:30 Club from about noon to 1. It was very strange--I've been to the 9:30 Club many many times, but never walked out into the sun before.

But I was there for the first Girls Rock! DC Showcase. GR!DC is a rock camp for girls by women. My sister, Kate, volunteered there, and she's pretty much been bouncing off the wall all week with excitement. I know this, and I've only talked to her like twice.

So sometimes it's exhausting to be a feminist, but sometimes, times like this morning, it's completely exhilarating. This camp is all about teaching girls to rock and all the attendant values and virtues that come along with "rocking"--of which there are many, I can assure you after seeing this morning's show.

I'm not too embarrassed to admit that I fought back tears a few times. Watching a little girl spin is such a non-sequiter, but that's the point. With some notable exceptions, female DJs are few, and, like lots of women in male-dominated fields, women musicians have to work harder than their male counterparts to prove themselves. My dad once told me he just doesn't like women singers. (That feeling you can't seem to place when you dislike a woman but just can't explain it? Yeah, that's sexism.) Though he also doesn't care about lyrics, so we don't have much to talk about when it comes to music.

So, in the last week, these girls formed bands, practiced or learned to play instruments, wrote a song, and cultivated their image. And without exception, their songs were fun, and their images were fierce. There was a lot of confidence on display--a trait that can be so rare and vulnerable in teen girls. One band, the Beat Queens ("like a drum, not like a vegetable") were all about 8 years old and had a whole routine worked out where they asked each other and the audience "Are you ready?" "Thank you, America," Queen Adia, the lead singer, shouted at the end of her set and again at the end of the GR!DC camp song. We ran into her after brunch, and she gave me her autograph.

Some girls are born with that kind of confidence, and I suspect Queen Adia is such a child. But some of us have had to constantly choke down self-doubt and fear and shyness to ever get anything done, and I saw a lot of those girls on stage today too. They're the ones who made me cry, because if they can realize at such a young age that it's awesome to be a girl and to have attitude and style and confidence and not worry about what anyone else thinks, then their lives are going to be that much better, starting today.

Is This True?

Wow, Home Depot. That's kind of neat.