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ON FITNESS MAGAZINES AND THEIR QUICK FIX ADS.
You know what? I admit it: sometimes I need a magazine to get me through an hour’s worth of cardio. I’ll put the settings on an interval program so I don’t let myself coast, I’ll find the catchiest and guiltiest pleasures on my iPod, I’ll drape the towel over the screen so I can’t see how much time or how many miles I’ve yet to complete, and I’ll change the TV from the demon Paula Deen to E!, because I wholeheartedly believe that watching the mental equivalent to chocolate covered pork rinds is made more acceptable by working out. And even then, all those tactics to make the hour go by faster sometimes don’t work, and that’s where a magazine comes in, so I subscribe to Women’s Health and Shape and Self and all of those magazines geared towards fashion! and fitness! and fun! because they talk about something that interests me. I’m interested in fitness! and fashion! and I consider myself pretty fun, so hey, why not, right?
In reading these magazines, you kind of have to take everything in with a big grain of salt, because they’re essentially glossy advertisements. Everything in our society is, to a point. What workout clothes to buy (to flatter your shape!!), which foods to cook (and which packaged “foodlike” products to substitute in for less calories), where to go on vacation and all the yoga you can do there, you name it. The list is clearly endless, as these companies print out 12 new issues a year, telling you which new things you always need now, now, now.
But beyond the advertisements hidden in the articles, there’s also the advertisements themselves, which can churn out pretty contradictory information seeing as it’s really a matter of who’s willing to pay what. Take the March issue of Shape Magazine, for example.
Granted, there’s that line printed at the top of the page stating that this is a “SPECIAL ADVERTISING SECTION” filled with blurbs that companies paid the magazine to write up as if they’re little articles that would exist on any other page of the magazine. What I have issue with is the BluePrintCleanse, especially since the February issue of Women’s Health just did an expose of your body on a juice fast, which is what the “cleanse” really is.
Obviously, these two competing magazines aren’t exactly going to sit down and talk about the information the other is trying to sell to its readership, but even in all the gray area that is the health and fitness industry, you’d think there’d be some lightbulbs going off when these messages are so very different.
And while these magazines always seem to be touting the best ways to lose weight healthfully, there’s always space for companies who shell out big bucks for FOUR PAGE ADS like this:
This is from the March issue of Shape, and while, okay, whatever, the people at American Media, Inc, need to find vendors to pay for the publication of the magazine, what really stuck out at me was that four pages for a diet pill weren’t enough. Because this is apparently some sort of “Hollywood” issue, complete with strength training moves straight from the star trainers to you, they also included the following Success Story, a column usually dedicated to the average everywoman who lost weight on her own, in some little town, without a big, fat endorsement.
Look, if Holly felt fat at 5’5” and 130 pounds and wanted to lose weight, that’s her prerogative. It’s proof of how crazy the media is at scrutinizing a woman’s body, that’s for damn sure. But this is not an advertisement, not outright. And yet, they’re touting the use of a diet supplement. This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, either. (Shape has put Kim and Kourtney Kardashian on their cover before, and each time, the QuickTrim spokesgirls have said how much those products save their lives and their waistlines.) As long as the companies give them the money to do so, chances are that celebrities will endorse them and magazines will, at the very least, print their ads. Look at the back of any health & fitness magazine; there’s usually tons of space devoted to all kinds of supplements.
Then again, maybe these quick fix pills fall in line with some of the magazines’ messages. On every cover, there’s always promises to the secrets to toned thighs and less flabby arms and asses so high, NASA will want to know your secret to defying gravity. Oh, and you’re supposed to start seeing results in two weeks. And you can lose three pounds by Friday.
I suppose I always viewed these promises as something more of a jump start than of a lifestyle change, and that the magazines were offering their readers ideas to get the ball rolling, since research has shown that people who drop weight quickly in the beginning are more motivated to keep going even after weight loss stalls. (I tried to find this article, but I lost it, if anyone has it, I’d love you forever.) I gave them the benefit of the doubt and thought that they’re just trying to keep everyone motivated, to really make a change, to make being healthy a habit for life — or at least to make subscribing every year a habit for life. But now I kind of question that. What if that’s stupidly idealistic of me? What if we should just be jaded and treat everything as the corporate way to hawk advertisements at us? What if these companies don’t care about our well-being as much as they care about making a buck?
I know that the answer to these questions might be to turn to more holistic magazines, and over the years, I’ve realized I’m much less inclined to buy the best packaged foods for chicks! — suck it, dudes, I’ve got a whole guide to the grocery store JUST FOR ME!! — because I’d rather spend my money on fruits and vegetables and things that man didn’t play God to create. But I’m not saying I don’t like these magazines for the most part. They’re shiny and pretty and fun, and they do have interesting articles and clothes I like and beauty tips and tricks I sometimes find interesting, no matter how lazy I am or how little I actually wear makeup.
So there’s one thing I take issue with in these magazines, and it’s their ads. It’s like how I have issue with Channing Tatum. Can he really act which is, you know, his job? It’s up for debate, because hey, even the kid with a monologue about dick-shaped food is nominated for an Oscar this year, so maybe the guy will surprise us with a tour de force portrayal in that movie about male strippers. But until then, the rest of him is pretty friggen’ sexy right now and that is all the reason I need to root for him winning Rachel McAdams back from the land of the lost memory.
(Source: meandmyworkout.com)
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As a good and proper cynic, I went on a date with my friend Gym on Valentine’s day. I do, however, love me some presidents. Democracy totally makes my heart skip a beat. (Oh, and happy belated vday, too.)
XO, E
forget talking about the suckiest 11 miles ever, this is what i did today:
We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
(Source: meandmyworkout.com)
It’s scientifically proven that looking at a glittery manicure makes push ups suck less. Today’s a Jamie day. I’m going to need all the salvation I can get. (Psst, it’s Essie Sugar Daddy and A Cut Above.)
breaking news: the gym absolutely sucks after a long day of work.
There is no nice way for me to say that.
It just blows. (#gymbratproblems, I know.)
But there are days like today, when I get so absolutely busy that I begin thinking all my running around totally counts as a workout, that I’m grateful my gym is stationed right outside my subway stop so I have no excuse to not go. I have never been a nighttime exerciser; I’m the bitter kind of morning person who is a morning person against her will and needs all the coffee in the world, and every time I go to the gym at night, I always think it’ll be easier to bang out however many miles I need to do now that I’ve gotten used to it.
Spoiler alert: it never gets easier.
And while I had to break the monotony of the dreadmill with a break between the miles, my constant bargain with myself is that if I do stop, I have to ramp up each subsequent interval and go even faster.
My legs were really tired after running around all day, and especially after running 10 miles yesterday. Sore does not even begin to cover exactly how difficult it was to even pick up the littlest dictator this morning and put her on the swing set. But things loosened up after a little while, and I’d gotten to the gym earlier than usual tonight, so I figured I ought to try one more encore round, which I started at 6.2 miles per hour and ramped up every minute, so I finished at a 7.1 pace.
… to Whitney Houston. Because I am nothing if not cliche, and I Wanna Dance With Somebody will be the repeat song for… oh, the rest of my life.
(Or until they take Mariah from me, but God, if you do that, I will stage an insurrection and a coup and take. you. out. Let me have my Mariah forever, thanks so much!)
(Source: meandmyworkout.com)
A RECIPE FOR THE ULTIMATE PEEGRET:
- Run 10 miles.
- Down a 700mL water bottle promptly upon finishing said run.
- Take the subway home.
- Forget that the subway ALWAYS delays on weekends, but especially on Sundays.
- If you give a mouse a cookie, he’s going to want a glass of milk to go with. If you go for a really long run, upon coming home, you’ll find your roommate just stepped into the shower.
- And hogged all the hot water.
You, meanwhile, will be forced to either (a) wait it out, or (b) run downstairs to the bodega and beg the guy at the counter to use the bathroom again as only someone in New York living in a 3br/1 bath could. But see, that means walking down and then back up 3 flights of stairs since you live in a walk up, and after doing that once? No. Just. You will wait, my friend. You will friggin’ wait.
I can’t show you where I started my run because you’d all turn into a bunch o’ stalkers, but I can show you where I ended: at a Starbucks by Wall Street. My run occupied Wall Street. I haven’t run down that way in a long time, partially because I was bored of the stretch of highway between 42nd street and 28th street that is just as uninteresting as could be, and partially because I wanted to avoid any and all protests like the plague. Keep on doing your thing, fight the good fight, fuel my socialist mother to fill my facebook feed with left wing opinion, just don’t let me get arrested. (I spend all my money on shoes, I can’t afford paying a fine.)
And while I was supposed to only run 9 miles today, the GPS on my phone decided to tell me I’d run a mile in 2:07, and then another mile and a half in 6:28. Yeah, right. I had to go by time, and while a 10 minute mile pace is conservative for me, I figured to aim for an hour and thirty minutes to be on the safe side. Right when I think I can let up? The Immigrant Song starts playing.
I think the shuffle feature on my phone has it in for me when it comes to the whole “motivation” thing. It’s really not fair to play a power song all the way at the end.
Oh, and for the record on how the whole Clif Shots thing went: best flavor ever, questionable mouthfeel, which is like the ultimate food douche thing to say, but it stands.
(Source: meandmyworkout.com)
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