12:12:48

I need to apologize to my body.
Really.
For mistreating it, taking it for granted. Not appreciating wll it has done for me. Mainly, being ungratefull it has managed to keep me alive and strong, when so many would have just collapse. Karen Carpenter's body wasn't as amazing as mine and gave up. My body never did.

I started abusing it in December 1993. Just when I turned 18. I left for College and gained the usual few pounds. That winter, I started punishing my body for changing a bit: forcing it to run in the cold, not eat enough so it would learn it's lesson: my hips shouldn't get wider; my stomach should not get softer. My thighs should remain thin. And then, in 1995, I decided it needed to pay for the changes it made. So I starved it.
I didn't feed it enough: for breakfast, it was only allowed 3 slices of toast with fat-free-fake butter and fat-free-green-packaged-ham. Lunches, it was allowed a few pasta shells mixed with steamed spinach and an apple with cottage cheese. And for dinner, I would only give it fat-free soup, an apple and two fat-free yogurst. Fat Free. That's all it was allowed.

But my body just worked harder to keep me warm; it pumped harder to keep my heart beat strong. It struggled to give me energy so I would be able to work, and study and move.
It was starving yet it kept me going. I never ended up in a hopsital bed, a tube in my arm. It enabled me to stay warm. It stopped ovulating to help me preserve energy. I was 80 pounds and my body kept on going...
And I never thanked it for it.


Sunday May 2nd, 2004. It's 4:45 in the morning. My alarm clock is buzzing and buzzing like crazy and I can hear a few minutes later the sound of a bell. Just ringing and ringing: the ringtone is called crossroads. A train honks, and the bells just ring and ring and ring until I finally remember what day it is and why all of my alarms are going crazy.


I jump out of bed. Ouch. My legs are sore, my bones are cracking. I am tired. I waited tables all night last night, until midnight, running up and down the stairs, back down to the kitchen: "Table 40 says his steak is not cooked enough." The Chef will scream back at me:"It's supposed to be this way, he ordered it rare!!!" And there I went, back up to my table... All night long.... More ketchup for the 5 fries you have left on your plate? Sure. No it doesn't bother me at all. Want me to go milk a cow so you can have really fresh milk with your coffee while I'm at it?
But it's OK, I'll go down 19 steps, to the back of the kitchen get a little white cup, fill it up with ketchup, go back up 19 stairs and politely smile as I watch this jerk dip in the cold, last fries on his plate.


But this morning, as I stretch my stiff body, I don't care about anyone. I am happy. Today is the day that I have been training for, for the past 4 months. My first race. The Long Island Half Marathon.The adrenaline is already rushing through my veins; I have never put on sweat pants and sneakers so fast. I get out and hail a cab (who knew that I'd have to fight for a cab at 5 in the morning- sorry to the guy standing on the opposite corner, but I saw that cab first and I claim it). I pick up my friend Zuta on the way and we barely make the Long Island Railroad train on time. At Penn Station, we see people of all shape and weight, proudly wearing their black nylon "Long Island Marathon and Half-Marathon" backpack, and waiting, a cup of coffee in their hands, for the track number to appear on the screen. Track 19. Go, go go! It's fun; we make friends with a Brittish guy named Scott, and slouch on the seats of the blue/gray train. An hour later, we step off the train: It's cold and damp. It's supposed to rain soon so we hurry up the the starting line and start stretching and warming up. Zuta is like a good mom; helping me figure out how to put the chip on my aasics sneakers, already dirty from the wet grass. Talking me through my first experience with portable bathrooms (do go on the way in, the way out is so much worse! Apparently, running is good for bowel movements!). I pin my number under my crunch team shirt with the slogan: "when you shuffle the letters is spells MEAT". Some people laugh reading it.


It's 7:55 Am; the DJ plays Earth, Wind and Fire as the countdown starts. Zuta and I gather around the 9-minute mile sign, looking for others sporting the same shirt we are. In front of me, 3 very buff guys wearing tight pink T-shirts and very feminine short gray shorts. "Tough men running for women" reads there shirts. I am so excited, I feel like I am back in high scool, on the very first day of the term. Everyone is laughing, clapping. The national anthem is sung. Funny how in our world, everything has to be about patriotism, about belonging to a country. I'd be happy with just the Rocky theme song for every sporting event! But that's just me.We finally start. I follow Zuta's pace. I cross a group of men, in their 60's with a "senior feet" bright yellow t-shirt; another group of women who raced for "the cure"- breast cancer- the previous Sunday; fathers running for their sons in Iraq, mother's running for children they lost on September 11.


I am running for this body I have hated so much.
Mile 1... Smooth running. Zuta and I are laughing. Our breath is fine, the cold air is actually envigorating. We run at an easy pace that allows us to gossip. Sheldon is dating Hitmomi and they are also running their first race here this morning; who got fired from crunch, which hip hop song Zuta will choose for her next dance routine... I am surprised at how smooth the first 3 miles seem. My breath is steady, my pace regular and my legs strong.
At mile 4, Zuta and I bump into four other Crunch team members, including Karen and Rob, who are running the full Marathon. We decide to slow down our rythme and join them for a mile at a slower pace.
At mile 5, we notice that a lot of men are running for the bushes. I try not to think of the little cups of water I grabbed at mile three and have to force myself not to think that I already have to pee. A few people are standing on the sides, clapping and cheering; a little girl with pink gloves yells out "daddy, daddy" and starts running along his side.
By the time we get to the sixth mile, I am more than ready for my poweraid cup. I always hated the chemical taste of sports drinks but this morning it tastes like the best thing I have ever swallowed. You know how, when you watch the New York Marathon on TV, you wonder how they can grab that little cup, swallow a few drops, and toss it? Surprisingly not that hard.
Miles 7 and 8 are not as easy. I unconsciously slow done and only pick up because Zuta challenges me to keep her rythme. But it's getting harder and hareder to breathe. I feel the breath getting caught in the back of my throat. It's dry and I am thirsty but cold...
By mile 9, the weather got bad: It's drizzling. I am cold and hot and cold and wet. My legs hurt, I think I might have shin splins. I hate my sneakers, I hate this road and the trees and everyone else who doesn't seem tired. But I keep running. One foot in front of the other. I need to keep my rythme, one-two, and breathe, one-tow and breathe...
I feel like I am going to die. I start getting cranky and annoying. It's damp, it's cold, it's raining.
But Zuta catches my before I drift into self-pity and miss out on the experience. She is right: it is a great race and we are lucky because we can run and enjoy it and are alive. The rain is not annoying. It's refreshing. So I get my whole body into it, match my feet to Zuta's feet. Concentrate on my breathing. I come accross a 70-year-old man with a shirt that reads: Iron Man Hawaii, 2002. Just the boost I needed: If he can do an Iron man at his age, then I can finish this race. I am already at mile 11, just 2 and some left to go. Up hill? I can do this. One foot in front of the other. I speed up again.

Mile 12. I am now running my last mile. Last mile… I am running like I have never run before. I know it's just a half Marathon. But 5 months ago, I wouldn't even have been able to run 5 miles straight. 5 years ago, I was getting my periods again. 5 years ago, I started eating again. Allez les petites jambes, come on little legs. Come one little legs, come on. My knees are cracking. They are not used to the pavement. My thighs are so tender; every step vibrates up my left leg. People are now screaming: You' re doing great. You are almost done, almost done…Allez, les petites jambes, I can see the finishing line… Come on…. I glance at my watch; it's around 10:10... Allez les jambs, allez, allez, allez, Go, go go!


When I pass the finishing line, I understand. I understand why some people cry, or lift their arms in the air. I did it. I finnished it. My body did it! My body with it's fat ass, flat breasts and flabby abs managed to run 13.1 miles in 2h and 12 minutes and 48 seconds… the body that I found disgusting and fat is in fact strong and amazing. My body some have made fun off, my body and didn't use to stand up for, has managed to run 20km in the cold, the rain, with only four hours of sleep. Nothing matters any more. Not the fact that my fingers are frozen and turning blue (apparently a sign of dehydration), not the fact that we end up running the mile back to the train station, face cramped from the pain in our legs, so we can make the train back into the City. Nothing else matters anymore but the fact that my body did not let me down.


Which is why I have to tell it I am sorry.
Body? I apologize. For the abuse. For the insults and under appreciation. I am sorry I made you work so hard at keeping me warm, awake, and strong. I am sorry I forgot what was truly important. That the perfect body is not about a size. It's about strength. That I need to eat, eat well and eat enough. You might get bigger or you might not. ButI promise, I will make sure you get stronger. Because that's what matters.


They say normal people run races because it makes them feel extraordinary. I think it's because people are already extraordinary that they can run races.

Crossing Over

On Thursday, March 11th, 2004, two and a half years after 9-11 -yes we all did the math, thank you CNN-; almost five years after Columbine; bombs exploded, blood and bodies covered the tracks of beautiful Madrid.

Once again, we were under an avalanche of images of screaming faces, crying children, and also body parts. An arm on a track, a body torn in half, covered by a piece of cloth. The media had access to everything and showed us anything- provided the government gave it its OK and none of the images involved a dead American Soldier in Iraq-

This propelled a mass of email correspondence between my friends and I. Mainly inquiring about who could have done "it". ETA? No said, A. Not their style. They try to avoid harming civilians.I guess they don't cross the line between killing a politician (apparently not a civilian) and killing "innocents".A few days later, suicide bombers killed Israelis civilians. The "fence" is apparently not that hard to cross. Again, to the bombers, owners of an Israeli passport are not considered "innocents". I am sure for them, no lines was crossed either. After all, they find nothing wrong with sending an angry and confused 14-year-old boy - who had been brainwashed with promises of a better after-life and money for his family- to a checkpoint so that he can shred himself up in little pieces…
For the Israeli government, putting humans behind a wired wall is not crossing the line of humanity either. It is not "asking" for another bomb to tear apart a bus or a mall. After the elimination of the Spiritual Leader of the Hamas, Sharon praised the attack, claiming they got rid of a man whose ideology was simply the assassination of all Jews. He was a terrorist.
Mr. Sharon, when you killed 11 children last summer while targeting the military chief of the Hamas, would it be fair to say that your ideology is the assassination of all Muslims? Ah, wait, no, never mind. That's different. It's part of the defense program. No line is crossed then.

The line between terror and assassination and self-defense clearly depends on whose side you're on.I remember the arguments I had with an old boyfriend. For most of us French, Arafat and the PLO is not quite considered a Terrorist group. I understand that technically, it is terrorism. However, back in the 80's, the cause seemed so noble, it was hard for us to admit he was crossing the line between defending his rights as a human being and becoming the leader of a group of murderers…

After a heated argument with my boss, he raised a point: how else are oppressed people supposed to fight back against an oppressor that has one of the strongest and well-trained army in the world? Is everything really allowed in a fight for Freedom? Is there a reason why Malcolm X was much more effective than Martin Luther King? Why the "Gandhi way" most of the time results in a no way situation?Is there a line at which freedom fighting stops and terrorism starts? And if so, what is that line? Where should we stop in our quest for a solution to a problem?All is supposed to be fair in love and war, right?

Certain "terror" planters have some sort of moral line they will not go over- For instance, they will only kill or kidnap public figures; people who are "against" them, not innocent bystanders. Only people who "ask" for it by being into politics, or soccer even. (Ask French-Basque soccer player Lizzarazou how he feels about the death threats on him and his family because his is playing for the traitors, that is France).

And then, you have the others, like the murderers of Madrid, who have a line that visibly seems to be pushed way back where you can barely see it. To them, maybe the line would be not to place a bomb in their own country.

For me, things are different. September 11th made me aware of the fact that they are no more lines left to be crossed. Not for Terrorists, not for political leaders, not for most of us people… Just like the borders disappearing from Europe, there is no border left a terrorist will stop at. Hijacking planes, destroying buildings and thousands of lives…Bombing a kindergarten in Oklahoma, a bus stop in Jerusalem, a night club in Bali, a refugee camp in Gaza…Killing 5 kids but hey, also two "important" Hamas leaders in the same blast…
In France, kids dug out Jewish thumbs to protest against Israel.
In Great Britain, a prime Minister went against the opinion of his whole country and waged a war with America, apparently forgetting he is supposed to be the representative of "the people"…
In Columbine, a city banished a pastor for doing the funeral of the killers…

and we just let them all get away with it.
Very few people here questioned the government's motives for a war in Iraq. No one paused and reflected on the fact that maybe there was a reason behind Europe's hostility towards America. And if they did, then they were labeled unpatriotic. Politicians went through a great extend, manipulating votes, then fact sheets and the media, making a mockery out of the UN, to go through their own agenda. It seems there are no place left where a line cannot, will not, be crossed. There is nothing stopping us. After all, we- regular human beings without any supernatural powers- play God; we decide who gets to live or die, punishing them for a crime they committed with…another crime?
Do we not cross the line they themselves have crossed, calling it Justice when we sentence someone to death?

My question is, if we allow our representatives to take big steps across that invisible and weak line, do the little things in our life without thinking twice about a line we may be crossing, if we interact with people in that same ignorance… well, how else is the world supposed to function?

The other night, at the gym, a guy I helped out with a translation stopped at the bottom of my treadmill to say hello. Then he burst out laughing that I was getting all these zits on my face.
Two days (and many scrubs and masks that burnt the shit out of my skin), my dance teacher advised me, in the middle of the class, to drink more water and not wear so much concealer on my pimples, let them breathe, he said.
Apparently, everyone and their mother has an opinion on what I should use, not use, do, eat, drink to help with my acne breakout.Because apparently, the fact that it is my face and my skin, does not play a role, whatsoever, in the decision making process. Apparently, I cannot know what is best for me.

No, it's not inappropriate of them to comment on the six (yes I counted them), six white, huge (well, when I stare at them pressed against the mirror), making-me-self-conscious-spots I have on my face. Apparently, giving other un-requested advice is not crossing the line.

I bumped into some friends, lounging on a couch, chilling and chatting. L. got up and pinched the fat of my stomach. I felt so violated. A lot of women understood how insulting this was. To me, it was more than insulting. I felt disrespected. I felt like my body was not sacred. I felt hurt that someone I consider a friend would mock the fat of my stomach. What happened to flattery? It WILL get you anywhere. Or at least further ahead than with mockery. The worse part was that when I told him how offended I was, he asked me what my problem was? Why couldn't I be chiller? Oh I don't know. Maybe because I was expecting more from someone who knew I was celebrating my 5th year recovered from anorexia? Perhaps I thought someone who knew me and knew my issues in regards to my body would be a wee bit more considerate? Or at least would know that comments on my body are things that truly affect me? I starved myself for three years for crying out loud. I crossed the line and punished my body.

Another night, at the snotty french restaurant I wait table at, the chef mentioned that my stomach was getting fat. That I should stop munching on fried food and do more crunches. And later on, when some of the other waiters and I were sharing a plate of curried onion rings with an Asian plum dipping sauce, so tasty I was licking it off my fingers, S, one of the French waiters said: no thanks. I try to watch my figure and not pig-out. You should be more careful; you're not that young anymore. Sophie, I'm saying this for your own good!

Last summer, I was also told my breasts were too small and that I might want to consider implants.

Is it me, or does it seem like my body, my boundaries, my lines are being stomped on? Is commenting on other's bodies not stepping over? Is that not going to far? Being rude? Don't cross the line and make fun of my body. How dare you think it's up for crabs? It's funny what happens with skinny people. Others think that commenting on your body is fair game since you're lucky enough to be skinny. No one tells a fat person she has flabby abs. However, just like for a fat person, everyone watches and comments on what the skinny girl should eat.

Nothing is sacred. Nothing is private. Everything is fair game, good gossip. Everyone has the rights to everything. A heartbreak is exposed in public, for the world to judge who dumped who and why.
On TV, couples get engaged, married, divorced; others are tempted on Paradise Island to break up.
Others eat eyeballs and worm for a few thousand dollars.
Any day, you could turn on the screen and see your boyfriend breaking up with you on Oprah. Unless he chooses to dish you with a music video that makes it to number one on MTV's TRL…
We will stop at nothing to get 15 minutes of fame, or simply our way. There is no line that won't be crossed for good ratings. There is no decency line left…

A TV Show called "The Swan" auditioned ugly ducklings to pick, I guess the ugliest, and transform them through intense plastic surgery, diet, exercise into "beautiful" women who will participate in a pageant so that one can be crowned swan. Are they not going overboard when they -the producers- use women with poor self-esteem to create sensational TV? How about telling these women that they are beautiful and some things like, let's say, their whole face, should not be touched? No, instead we give them a new nose, new lips, new cheeks, new teeth, new breasts, new legs new everything… And we applaud when they stare in the mirror and cry out: I am a new person, a beautiful person. That other girl is now gone"…Is it not crossing the line when we allow "that other girl" to just die, because she didn't fit into some network's body standard? Whatever happened to being "beautiful no matter what they say, words can't bring us down"?

NBC also had a movie re-enacting September 11th. Are the executive producers not crossing the line when they decide to tell us what happened on the planes, in the buildings, in the Pentagon that day, considering no one that was there is still alive to tell us the truth? Is that not too much? Going too far?

We interact with others without asking of them that they respect our boundaries, and without even thinking that maybe, we are not respecting theirs. If we cross the lines and let others do the same for every day's little things, then how on earth is anyone supposed to remember to look on both sides before crossing the one regarding the bigger things?

At first, the lines got confused. We no longer knew what was what… OJ Simpson walked out free. The killers of Amadou did as well. The New York Post printed pictures of American soldier cemeteries in France telling us France was not appreciative of the sacrifices America had made for it. We weren't sure where to stand on homosexuality, Things were just blurry. But soon, it was clear that the lines had just become ridiculously insignificant.
So organizers of demonstrations started to be investigated. Foreigners, as they stepped out of a plane, got fingerprinted like criminals. "For prevention purposes". An Air France pilot with a terrible sense of humor ended up in jail, I allowed assholes at my restaurant to treat me with such lack of respect for a good tip…. laughing with them when they ask me if I am on the dessert menu, instead of throwing a glass of water on their pants. I should be ashamed of myself. I crossed the line with them. I left my self-respect behind.

Is the problem just like The Cingular adds for long distance calls? If you can't see the line, how are you supposed to know you've crossed it?Is the problem that we do not know where the line is? That others do not tell us when we have gone too far and we do not tell them that they too are just way out of line? Or is the problem just that life, the world, is much more passionate and "interesting" without a line? Why don't we expect more from everyone?Why do we watch it disappear and just breathe out :Oh well! ???