I was recently on a flight, leafing through a copy of The Box, an unfortunately-named magazine for people who do Crossfit, or, like myself, have done Crossfit but are extremely injury-averse, and instead simply incorporate many of the good parts of Crossfit into their own training. I like to say "training" in reference to working out, because it makes you feel like you're working towards something, as opposed to just being a rat on a treadmill. Me, I pretend that one day a wealthy madman is going to approach me and say "I've been watching you train, and I'd like to hire you to kill James Bond." Whatever gets you to lift weights, you know? Whatever works.But, anyway, I'm on the plane, and I'm reading The Box, because Annie Thorisdottir is on the cover, and I find her Inspirational for her strength and chutzpah. Now, she's not going to be in the Crossfit Games this year, having fucked up her back (I am not blaming Crossfit, partly because they will show up and yell at me, but also because accidents happen, although this is also why I decided to max out my squat when it hit just shy of double my bodyweight and why I do not do a ton of Olympic weightlifting in a competitive environment). They went ahead with the shoot anyway, and she looks as pictured.And the woman next to me on the plane, who I know was coming from a place many women come from, after decades of being slowly consumed by the expectations and standards for how women ought to look, said, in the conspiratorial tone unique to criticizing the bodies of others:"I would NOT want to look like her, would you?"
