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feldmanSo I've been lingering at the fringes of the Crossfit/paleo territory, and I think there's a lot to be said for exploring protocols radically different from lowfat diet + interminable cardio (the 'official' protocol for health and fitness that pushes my biology into depression and hibernation within weeks).
I'm a dilitant lifehacker, a garage workshop student of biology, and I like running new flags up the pole to see if I get a salute. My body responds well to paleo-esque fuel and short-sharp-shock style exercise. With school easing up for the summer, I plan to dial up the activity, take better care of myself, and have more fun with my body.
The thing that's beginning to wear on me, even as I narrow my RSS focus to the more physiologically-inclined paleo/HIIT blogosphere, is that the place is overrun by suburban white guy machismo. I understand the motivating idea behind a mental concept of Grok, a theoretical hunter dude making his way in the natural world, as a way to get into a pre-agriculture mindset about activity and food (what would Grok do?). I also think it's a useless construct for many reasons, but the main thing that chaps my ass about the whole Grok thing is that it's just as irrelevant and counterproductive to my own thinking and experimentation as evolutionary psychology is to my understanding of, well, anything besides pedantic misogyny.
In short, Grok is about as enlightening as an episode of Captain Caveman.
Boris links to a delightful video that at first blush parodies this balls-to-the-wall bullshit of hyper-macho training, but as I watched a sense of grim familiarity overtook my amusement. It's funny because it's true, but some things hit too close to truth to be funny (I have this problem with "Office Space" right now). I like Boris's SquatRX blog because he explores the mental discipline of training, and has a Buddhist slant that speaks to me, as someone who often gets in her own way. So I'm watching this Turkish badass strap rocks to his calves and leap like a mountain goat and it's delightful.
Then a doe-eyed woman in flowers bathes his bloody knuckles with herbs and it's not so fucking funny, because right then I'm no longer the badass deadlifting boulders, I'm The Chick.
Yes, this is a youtube clip and not an actual post on a paleo-blog. But it perfectly illustrates the snap-back I get whenever I'm knee-deep in an interesting post and suddenly realize that I'm not the audience, I'm not the person thinking about their squat form, or contemplating a pair of Vibram Five Fingers or adjusting to coffee without sugar--I'm The Chick, Grokette, the girlfriend afraid to weightlift, the woman who has a few token discussion threads to hang out on, the other half of the species that didn't chase down prey like a badass and eat its liver raw.
I call bullshit. I don't come from some mythical Grokette, buddy.
My maternal line has been rocking the digging stick for millions of years. I come from girls who foraged over miles with siblings strapped to their backs, women who processed whole animals into food, tools and clothes, grandmothers who levered over boulders and set bones, and every single one of them survived to hand it off to the next generation. They hauled water and wood, they tamed fire and microorganisms to greatly increase their nutrition, they discovered medicines and drugs and they did so while pregnant, nursing and caring for children in a brutal landscape.
'Gathering' is not grocery shopping, and if we're the legacy of a steroptypical successful hunter, let me tell you fucker, we're also the legacy of a successful gatherer who kept her fire fueled and her toddlers safe while pushing a quarter million calories through her body with each year of nursing.
Momma's buying her kettlebell today.
I'm a dilitant lifehacker, a garage workshop student of biology, and I like running new flags up the pole to see if I get a salute. My body responds well to paleo-esque fuel and short-sharp-shock style exercise. With school easing up for the summer, I plan to dial up the activity, take better care of myself, and have more fun with my body.
The thing that's beginning to wear on me, even as I narrow my RSS focus to the more physiologically-inclined paleo/HIIT blogosphere, is that the place is overrun by suburban white guy machismo. I understand the motivating idea behind a mental concept of Grok, a theoretical hunter dude making his way in the natural world, as a way to get into a pre-agriculture mindset about activity and food (what would Grok do?). I also think it's a useless construct for many reasons, but the main thing that chaps my ass about the whole Grok thing is that it's just as irrelevant and counterproductive to my own thinking and experimentation as evolutionary psychology is to my understanding of, well, anything besides pedantic misogyny.
In short, Grok is about as enlightening as an episode of Captain Caveman.
Boris links to a delightful video that at first blush parodies this balls-to-the-wall bullshit of hyper-macho training, but as I watched a sense of grim familiarity overtook my amusement. It's funny because it's true, but some things hit too close to truth to be funny (I have this problem with "Office Space" right now). I like Boris's SquatRX blog because he explores the mental discipline of training, and has a Buddhist slant that speaks to me, as someone who often gets in her own way. So I'm watching this Turkish badass strap rocks to his calves and leap like a mountain goat and it's delightful.
Then a doe-eyed woman in flowers bathes his bloody knuckles with herbs and it's not so fucking funny, because right then I'm no longer the badass deadlifting boulders, I'm The Chick.
Yes, this is a youtube clip and not an actual post on a paleo-blog. But it perfectly illustrates the snap-back I get whenever I'm knee-deep in an interesting post and suddenly realize that I'm not the audience, I'm not the person thinking about their squat form, or contemplating a pair of Vibram Five Fingers or adjusting to coffee without sugar--I'm The Chick, Grokette, the girlfriend afraid to weightlift, the woman who has a few token discussion threads to hang out on, the other half of the species that didn't chase down prey like a badass and eat its liver raw.
I call bullshit. I don't come from some mythical Grokette, buddy.
My maternal line has been rocking the digging stick for millions of years. I come from girls who foraged over miles with siblings strapped to their backs, women who processed whole animals into food, tools and clothes, grandmothers who levered over boulders and set bones, and every single one of them survived to hand it off to the next generation. They hauled water and wood, they tamed fire and microorganisms to greatly increase their nutrition, they discovered medicines and drugs and they did so while pregnant, nursing and caring for children in a brutal landscape.
'Gathering' is not grocery shopping, and if we're the legacy of a steroptypical successful hunter, let me tell you fucker, we're also the legacy of a successful gatherer who kept her fire fueled and her toddlers safe while pushing a quarter million calories through her body with each year of nursing.
Momma's buying her kettlebell today.
