High Heels, Hairspray, and Hard Life Lessons

I could write about progression, defeat, or success.  I could write about pre-show excitement, post-show transition, or the importance of bringing a mirror to the competition venue.  I could recommend suit colors, how to wear your hair, or the difference between 4 and 5 inch heels.

There's a lot I could write about when reflecting on this past show season and because of the options, I haven't written anything yet.  There are a plethora of themes I've entertained and a surplus of thoughts I could share.

Do I write about what it's like to arrive at a show after 2 years off and not feel confident with my physique?  Do I write about how I worked my arse off to make changes and stood incredibly proud four weeks later?

These are all good, true thoughts and I could certainly find enough to write about with each one.  But there's a theme that keeps resurfacing, keeps nudging at me, and wants to be shared.

Time and again the only word that continues to reappear in my mind is, quite simply, gratitude.

A plain word not often associated with bodybuilding, fitness, or bikinis but a word I can't seem to shake.  When I've thought of flashier, more entertaining, comedic, eye-catching topics, this word just keeps popping into my little blond head.

When I decided to take some time off the stage I didn't know I would have to question if I would ever get back on.  I figured I would take a little time, improve, maybe grow some muscles, and then dive right into prep again a year or so later.  I had no idea I would move states, get a new job, lose mobility in my body, spend each night with ice under my back, undergo MRIs, and get diagnosed with something that would be part of me for life,

When I was on the hospital bed, after waking up at 3am to work 12 hours, and listening to the whirring and clanking of the MRI; standing on a stage in a bikini was the furthest thing from my mind.  I didn't know if I was about to hear good news, bad news, or if I would get home in time to sleep 6 hours before going to work again.

This prep wasn't easy but it was incredible because I was able to do it.  After learning what early onset arthritis was and the means to help and improve it, I was able to do this strange, silly sport once again.

When I stood and felt cold spray tan hit my back, I was thankful.  When I was able to turn my hips onstage and see my Nana in the crowd, I was thankful.  When I danced around with the other ladies backstage, I was thankful.

I am thankful for the man that made me chicken and told me I was beautiful when I posed on Sunday mornings with bedhead and pajamas on.  I am thankful for the mom that cheered my name as I strutted and turned.  I am thankful for the coach that kept me healthy, energized, and motivated.

I am grateful for each judge that spent their day endorsing a passion.  And grateful for each promoter that worked for months so I was able to share smiles with other tanned strangers.  And so grateful for each kind word, positive comment, and sincere encouragement from friends, peers, and colleagues.

When you have a passion, as silly as it may be, and you don't know if you will experience it again, you perceive it a bit differently when you do.  Little, somewhat insignificant details are clear and wonderful.

Above all else, I am grateful for my body.  For the vessel that doesn't just let me stand in high heels and a bikini, but the machine that allowed me to experience a passion once again.

This past show season was incredible because I could do it.  It was amazing because my body could move and my mind could comprehend. I took those small things for granted before and now, I am grateful.

Prep and Peak Week- Life's Version

As I turned the key one more time and prayed to the Jetta gods for some kind of automotive miracle, my dog licked my arm and barked.  It sputtered for 10 seconds before dying and I looked over at Jax with dismay.

I had sweat trickling down my boobs, a bag of dog treats tucked under my arm, and a water bottle on the dashboard.  I had frizzy hair tied up in a bird's nest, a wedgie from the old underwear I had quickly slipped on, and a speck of ketchup on the side of my mouth.  I also had with me, a mental list of the 114 things I had to do today that all, of course, required a working automobile.

Jax panted and I realized I was not the only one with sweat down my boobs. I opened the windows, letting the 90 degree heat pour in and looked her in the eye.  
Do we cry...should we laugh...well, we should most definitely text the boyfriend that was 2 hours away at a Bachelor party.  He couldn't do anything for us at the moment but we did want to make sure he knew we were suffering. 

As we unfolded our bodies from the disgruntled array of metal, I glanced down the street and saw simmering heat on the pavement.  I knew back inside the house was cool but the pup had been promised the dog park and I was going to give her...something.  Dropping the treats, water bottle, and purse in the backyard we started running.  Wedgie ensued, hair flopped down, and my shorts (thinking they were going to the dog park) quickly crept up past my belly button.  Jax had her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, her leg tangled around the leash, and a smear of spit across her nose.

We were a vision.

We trotted, and I thought. What do I do now.  I had the whole day planned- with my competition next weekend, I knew I needed to get stuff done before the crazy week began.  There's a whole lotta shite a girl needs to do to look "naturally" beautiful on show day (see above, i.e. bird's nest hair) and I was planning on doing it all today.  

I was going to wear out Jaxster at the dog park, drop her off at the house, and go get a trial run of my show makeup.  Next was a trip to the salon where eyebrows were going to be waxed then nails glammed up.  Then off to the gym for a HIIT sesh in the air conditioning.  Later, I would stop for some fresh vegetables and prepare salads for the week.  Then, probably, a trip to the pond for another walk around with the pup.

A car honked its horn and interrupted my thoughts.  I realized, in an instant, literally zero of the activities above were happening today.  

As we walked and thought and panted, I realized this was perfect.

I had planned all week for a ferocious weekend of productivity- I had made the appropriate calls and arranged the perfect schedule.  I had done everything I could and yet, life had other plans.

It was perfect, I concluded, as Jax picked up a questionable rubber item off the sidewalk, because this may happen next weekend too.

"Prep", or the amount of time before a show that a competitor uses to get ready, is exactly what it states- it prepares you for competition day.  It's a plan, it's a schedule, it's a strategy.  Days are detailed, meals are precise, and workouts are particular.  You are planning, during this time, to have the best possible show day.

But sometimes, as I swatted a fly against my arm, the best doesn't quite happen.  Sometimes you can plan perfectly and the imperfect happens.  Sometimes old cars die and sometimes eyebrows are not waxed.  Sometimes, shows do not go to plan.  Even after preparation, funky things can happen.

Jax and I got home and into the cool air.  
Later, we played tug of war, I emailed my grandma, I Instagrammed up some meals, I went for a run.  I watched some tv, I layed on a yoga mat, I lit candles and enjoyed the sound of rain.  I did laundry and drank tea and looked at old pictures.

I did all things I wasn't planning on doing today and none of the things I was.  
It was a wonderful day.

I've been planning for over 3 months to have a sublime show day.  I have stuck to a schedule and maintained a strategy to have a perfect day.  
But, I could break my arm on Wednesday.  I could have an allergic reaction and look like a cream puff.  I could break my bikini bottoms 2 minutes before getting on stage.  I could forget my lip gloss.  I could get a call from a family member desperately needing to talk and miss the show altogether.  I could break a heel and land on my tanned arse.

Despite everything I've done to prepare, these things could happen.  Because life, interestingly enough, doesn't plan around us.  It doesn't avoid a Jetta breaking down or dodge a clear heel snapping off.  What we do have control over, in this entertaining game called Life, is our reaction to it.

As I reflect on this interesting day, I am thankful. Because despite a lot going wrong, the day was very right.  It was filled with relaxation and smiles and peace.  And it was exactly what I needed before next weekend.
I know that whether a bikini bottom breaks or my bum looks like a marshmallow, it will be okay.  Plans can be broken but something greater can result.

Today, thank you Life, you've prepped me for some more of you.

My Life, My Passion- Take 2

I read an article this morning that was a little sad and even a little comical.  It was written almost 2 years ago, entitled, "My Life, My Passion" and was written by a young lady named Courtney Cronin.

Hey that's me!

The article, written a month after I completed my last show of my long competition season, seems foreign to me now.  The words I expressed were true, were sincere, and the emotions quite accurate.  And now, seem like a different person wrote them.  The blog post from November 2012 was, I recall, a bit difficult for me to write.  As I normally enjoy writing about peanut butter, puppies, and protein powder, this post was exposing and open; I wrote of my past experiences with food apprehension and uncertainties with body image, eating, and self-worth.  I explained in 2012 how grateful I was to have the sport of bodybuilding, that my goals to succeed in the sport were far greater than my insecurities.  I wrote that the destructive thoughts and actions towards my body were not worth the potential success I could have in the sport.

From the post, I quote, "I want SO badly to be a successful bikini competitor and fitness model that I can't do those harmful things."

Two years ago this silly, little hobby was my life.  It was my passion and my focus.  To give some insight, I was living with my mom, working as a waitress a few nights a week, and making half-hearted attempts at finding a career.  I would spend my days in the weight room, on the step mill, making fun fitness food, and Instagramming.  I was in a long distance relationship with my current boyfriend, but at the time thought our similarities and love for each other was because of our shared fitness lifestyle.

I was happy and incredibly, incredibly, naive.

In the last two years I've done a couple things, here are a few, in semi-chronological order:

-I got a job as an Executive Assistant in the Boston area.
-Said professional job ended up being the most extreme learning experience of my life and I was handed responsibilities and expectations of an experienced professional.
-I lived by myself in a small, 2 room studio in a run down neighborhood with very questionable neighbors.
-I worked 70 hours a week for a period of time that felt like years.
-I moved in with my boyfriend.
-I was promoted to a managerial role.
-I began experiencing severe back pain and all over body discomfort and wasn't able to lift weights or happily swing my legs out of bed for 6 months.
-I couldn't run 10 ft. without extreme pain.
-I learned I had early onset arthritis and the importance of pain management.
-I started respecting my body for being the vessel that enabled me to go to the grocery store, mail a letter, type an email, and walk down the street.
-I left my job and attained one in a completely different field.
-I was promoted at this job after a couple months and became the Corporate Recruiter for a respectable Technology firm.
-My boyfriend and I moved again.
-We got a puppy.
-I achieved my first commission.
-My boyfriend and I started looking at homes to buy and planning our future.
-I was happy and not so naive.

None of the things mentioned above have anything to do with competing, fitness, or modeling.  They have to do with life.  Real life.  Real struggle and real success.  During the last two years, health and wellness have still absolutely been part of my life.  Just viewed with a very different perspective.

I started prepping for some fall shows about a month ago and remember I am about 5 quick times a day when I eat and once when I workout.  The rest of the day is filled with life.  With work, with ambition, with tasks, and with love.  My mentality towards this sport could not be more different than 2 years ago.  I want to do well, of course, I'm a competitive person.  But I've realized there is so much more to my life than this silly, little hobby.  That I am much more than this hobby.

Here's a new quote, "I want SO badly to be a successful, respectable, loving person that I can't do those harmful things to myself because I am so much more."

I look forward to the upcoming season, it's fun!  I love having a goal and getting ready for some exciting, tan, bikini-filled days.
However, my focus, my goals, and my passion are far from strutting on that stage.  They are everyday. They are hard work, they are tasks, they are bonuses, they are hugs, they are laughter, they are life.

I've achieved more in the last two years than I ever could onstage and while frolicking onstage is fun, frolicking in life is now My Life, My Passion.

I Was Going to Play in the World Cup (and why being unrealistic pays off)

When I was nine years old, I knew I was going to play in the World Cup. 

I had the right Nike socks, had ordered a replica US Women’s Soccer Team jersey, and had perfected my signature for the fans that would call my name.  I knew the statistics of my future teammates, was confident I’d get along well with my coach, and was simply just waiting until I got my braces off and could drive a car before I joined the team.

I didn't put down the dreams of anyone else, for all I knew or cared, 95 people could be on the team.

I was just going to be one of them.

I had a plan.  I was going to play on my state team until I was about 16 before being recruited out of high school for the University of North Carolina.  I looked good in that light blue color so the uniform would work well. 

From there I’d split my time between the National team and my college squad.  There were a couple players that also did this so they could help me with traveling and scheduling details- JetBlue or SouthWest? Yup, definitely arranging a quick meeting with them.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to be sponsored by Adidas or Nike- my favorite player was sponsored by Adidas but that swoosh was just really classy.  Maybe I could sign with both?

Powerade or Gatorade endorsement? These choices were tough but I knew my agent could help me with them.

I was, of course, realistic about my role on the team- I wasn't going to be the leading goal scorer; I was going to be admired for my endurance, consistency, and comic relief on the bench and in the locker room.  I practiced some jokes I’d tell Mia Hamm and was confident I'd break her out of the shy shell she was known for.

I believed I was going to be on the World Cup team as much as I believed I was Courtney Cronin.

________________________________

I smile, writing this as a 26 year old and think fondly of the confidence I rocked as an adolescent. 

Somewhere down the line I became a bit more realistic. 

I acknowledged that life unfolds in ways that are not always in my hands and that my path may have twists and turns unplanned.  I found that the everyday details of life are actually a bit difficult to accomplish- dishes need to be done, bills need to be paid, college courses need attending, cars need gas, health insurance doesn't just come with adulthood, and groceries are bought by the person that wants to eat them.  And there was, of course, the fact that I wasn't that good at soccer.

If I had told the nine year old Courtney this, she would've rolled her glitter covered eyes and said, “Yaaa..So?”

As we grow older we’re told in many different ways to be realistic.  There are things that need to be done in life and HERE IS HOW YOU DO THEM.  That way won’t work, do it this way.  You could try that but, no. 

Realistic plans are admirable and we congratulate those who accomplish them.  To be successful is to have an achievable goal and a plan to get there.

I agree with many aspects of this notion.  A fuzzy dream is just a vision, a fantasy to entertain.  One has to have clear steps to success and the means to get there.

But where is the fun in these adult dreams if we don’t have that childlike confidence?  Far too often we limit ourselves because of the reality we’re trained to acknowledge.  Why dream when life is busy enough?

I think the combination of these two perspectives- clear plans with childlike expectations, can create a life of wonder, joy, creativity, and success.  I encourage us all to be a little unrealistic, to trust we can.  A simple, definitive belief known so well in childhood and often forgotten as adults.  Dreams may change but the approach we have towards them should not.

I think I may slap on some sneaks today and run around a field like a child.  I’ll smile and laugh, I’ll plan and wonder.  I’ll believe and trust.  I’ll be a little less adult and a lot more Courtney. 

Here’s to big dreams, big faith, and a big life.

<3

So you want to compete?- An unconventional view.

Recently, I've seen quite a few articles and posts about this.  As spring shows approach, winter bodies are unveiled, and the benefits of weightlifting are becoming increasingly popular, this question is being asked by average Joes and Jills around the world.

The articles are usually extremely informative, accurate, and detailed.  Physique and fitness experts educating the masses on the rigorous preparation, the time consuming training, and the emotional and financial dedication required for competition.

Proper coaching, healthy dieting, and well formulated, organized planning. 
That's some darn good advice.  Advice I offer when asked.  

Advice I'm glad I didn't know when I first embarked on this stage strutting adventure.  
Huh?

I giggle when I think about my first competition.  
I had never heard of the term, "prep."  I had never been to a show.  I had heard about bodybuilding competitions from a family friend and since I went to Planet Fitness, thought it might be a cool thing to do.

I Googled:  
Hmm, so it looked like I'd need a new bathing suit.  It appeared as though I would need some high heels and maybe a pair of earrings.  The ladies looked like they had some muscle so I increased my strength training by doing BOTH wide and close grip pull downs and began performing cardio on an incline.  They were tan...so I went tanning.

I picked an organization and then a show by scrolling through a list and landing on one that didn't look like it would require too much gas money.  I heard oatmeal and sweet potatoes were good so I picked those up and downed Diet Coke and Crystal Lite like a mad woman because it had zero cals...so like, it was good for me of course.

About 3 weeks before the show I ordered a bikini from Victoria's Secret new spring line.  It was bright blue, had a padded top, and made my butt look like a pancake.  I loved it.

I bought the gaudiest looking bracelet for $5.99 at Charlotte Russe and earrings at Claires.  

I searched, "stage heels" and found a pair from a very questionable website for $20 that pinched my toes and made me feel like a teetering rockstar.

I bought some self tanner because I wasn't sure if my tanning bed commitment had truly sealed the deal. 

The day before the show I woke up early to bleach my hair and asked my mom to paint me orange. 
I then realized, about an hour before departure, I would probably have to walk on the stage at some point so again, Google time: "bikini walks." I did a few rounds across my kitchen floor and then popped in the car for a trip to Massachusetts for a bikini show. 

I arrived at the show 10 minutes before I was to go onstage.
I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
And it was the best day of my life.

I LOVED the beaming competitors, the huge lunchboxes, the brown bods, the sticky smell and THEN...the stage.
The music, the nervous ladies backstage, and the lights- I freaking frolicked my heart out.
I could not.stop.smiling.

I knew I found something.  A strange mix of health, commitment, fitness, dedication, and fun.  Something I knew I wanted to do again and even possibly, do it well.

The thing is, the relentless preparation, the dedication, the planning- it's for a day.
One day that is an exciting culmination of a rigorous lifestyle.
You better make sure you like that day.

You can still be a devoted fitness enthusiast and strive to attain a 6-pack with striated glutes without that day.  It's called a hobby and an impressive one at that.  There are coaches for that, there are plans and preps for that.  The difference between a dedicated hobby and competing is (in my humble opinion) love for those 24 hours. 

If you're thinking about competing, do yourself a favor...and do it.  You may place dead last.  You may get embarrassed.  You may end up wobbling around in a wedgie filled bathing suit with orange streaks up your arms and legs.  You may do all of those things and still have the best day of your life.

Before accepting the common mindset of backbreaking allegiance and diving into the mental, emotional, and financial costs that often come with advanced competition, see if you like the darn sport.  

I sure did.  
And since I did, I decided to learn more about it.  I hired a coach.  I ordered a real bikini (sorry Angels).  I embraced the necessity of a flawless tan.  I walked around in my heels a bit.  I had a more structured prep which at times, tested my dedication.  Throughout those testing times I remember with a smile: why?

Not because I saw someone's photos on Facebook and wanted some of my own.  Not because someone tells me to.  Not because I have a love for healthy living and all things fitness.  
I compete because I love competing in the sport of bodybuilding. 
And I didn't know it...until I did.

Spritzers and Simplicity

I asked my large human of a boyfriend what I should write about next.
"banana hammock.

No but really Nate, what do you think?
"boner jams."

A huff and a giggle, a simple sip of my wine.
"Spritzers."

He had something here.

A little over a year ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of having a glass of wine on a delightful snowy evening. Four years ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of only have one. 

We love extremes, we love severity, we love obsession. Whether it's the BIGGEST Loser or Little People, we live in a world of excess highs and lows.  Shows on addiction, crazy brides, and teens poppin' out twins, our society lives for it all...anything besides simplicity.  A complete disregard to moderation. 

This naturally carries over to beliefs, thoughts, and practices with diet, food, and exercise. In my experience, there are two common points of view: food as reward and food as punishment.  
Whether it was in a college basement bar or among bodybuilders at a competition, many of these individuals hold the same frame of mind.  One or the other. A or B. Yay or Nay.

After seriously plunging into both (hello Franzia and Ellio's pizza....hola deprivation and denial), I have found the most meaningful, the most satisfying, and ultimately, the most MANAGEABLE outlook comes from a completely different philosophy-

Food as nourishment. 

(To be perfectly honest, that sounds like something that would typically receive a head nod, eye roll, and brush-off from me.  The title of an article in Yogi's Health I would bypass.  The topic of a seminar in India.  But I'll break it down in a way I learned to appreciate).

When you look up "Nourishment" in the thesaurus you find words like encouragement, ammunition, propellant, advantage, kindness, and support.  
Food as nourishment can mean a LOT of things.
Food as fuel.
Food as fun.
Food as a necessity.
Food as a delight.
Food as a requirement.
Food as energy.
Food as experience.

None of these words or thoughts view food as a prize or food as discipline.

Nourishment can mean a glass of wine.  It can mean a bowl of rice.  It can mean a walk on the beach on a warm summer night.  It can mean a twist of lemon in a glistening glass.  It can mean an apple, pear, or banana.  It can mean a toast of champagne. It can mean anything that fuels your body or fuels your soul.

Many things about extremity feel good.  A gallon of ice cream feels good at the time but can give a doozy of a bellyache.  A strict, clean diet of broccoli and chicken feels disciplined and quite badass but can give troubles in consistency and sustainability.  

The balance of basic GOODNESS for the body and mind is how I've been able to appreciate this quaint term and this simple perspective.  Goodness isn't reckless nights at a bar because it tolls on the body in more ways than a headache the next day.  Goodness isn't ice cream, pizza, and candy everyday because that typically leads to factors that influence self-esteem.  Goodness isn't zero carb meals for days on end.  

Nourishment, goodness, and admiration for the body and mind is a simple lifestyle rid of extremes. 
It's hard to attain but even harder to lose.
It's gratitude and delight.
It's movement and mobility.

It can be a snowy, cozy evening in the winter.  It can be a glass of wine, a silly boyfriend, a soft candle burning, and thoughts, prose, and passion desired to be shared.

Peanut Butter Praises.

It has come to my attention that my love of peanut butter is pretty well known.

Like some may post pictures, quotes and stories about sports, love and politics, I happen to enjoy showcasing my passion for peanuts.

(...and almond butter, peanut butter's dapper cousin).

I don't think this affection is unwarranted.  What other food do all normal, wonderful human beings enjoy so consistently across the masses?  Pizza? Nay. Nachos? Oi. Popcorn? I could eat 5 bags.

It's a deserving spread, one that is nutrient dense and dependable.  One that doesn't falter with time nor surprise you with displeasure.  It's nature's nut pulverized into a magical concoction that all palates praise. George Washington Carver, the inventor of the beautiful butter, is a hero to many, to mouths worldwide.  I picture angels flying softly around his head as he churned that bad boy into bliss.

Thank you good Sir.

In all seriousness, I think it's a delightful dish for a number of reasons, divine intervention aside.

It's packed with fiber. It's satiating. It's versatile. It gets along well with others. It's a source of potassium, protein and healthy fat. You can have it in the morning, at lunch, at night and in the refrigerator door.  It can travel.  It's got magnesium and Vitamin E. It fits easily on a knife, spoon, fork or finger.  It doesn't ask for much and it gives a whole lot back.

I could go on but I think we arrived at the obvious destination a while ago.

I like peanut butter for the same reasons I like life
Sometimes it's smooth
Sometimes it's chunky and raw

At the end of the day, it's all good.