The ‘F’n Fabulous at 40’ Project
Quarter turn to the right. A man’s voice booms over the speakers, and I feel it echo throughout my body. My knees are shaking, so much so that I’m worried my legs will give out and I’ll land on my uncushioned ass. I pivot on my toes. Side Pose. I focus on my breath, so that it expands my ribs but not my belly as I twist my chest to face the crowd, my head turned over my shoulder and gaze boring through the woman in front of me and into the side stage. Quarter turn to the right. We pivot again, giving the crowd a full view of our backsides clad in sparkly Swarovski crystalled asset-revealing bikinis. Now that my face is hidden, I release my contrived “relaxed” smile and allow my jaw to tighten as I arch my back and flare my lats. I feel sweat dripping from my armpits, streaking my multi-layered spray tan. My legs are now vibrating so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I’m praying that this is the last time we’ll have to make the posing circle before we’re give the cue to exit the stage. I’m cooked! It’s a miracle I’m still standing, teetering on these 6” platform stilettos, feigning grace as the slick stage threatens to take me down without warning.
***
Flashback to July 2016: I’m about to turn 40 years old, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I haven’t felt successful in life—not yet—and there’s something about #40 that’s supposed to mean something. I’m a year out of law school but haven’t found my way to a practice I love. My ex-boyfriend, or whatever-he-decided-he-was, swims up from the archives and splashes across my mind. One of his prized possessions, sitting on a coffee table in a second living room in his house down the street from the still-married Sean and Robin Wright Penn, was an album of photos taken from his 40th birthday party. These photos were blobs of light and flesh and teeth—memories from a drunken party he couldn’t even remember (yes, this would be one of many red flags) with the fancy people who showed up only for his events but were otherwise notably absent in his life. I thought, I don’t want this kind of memory—or lack thereof—for this milestone birthday. What’s meaningful? What’s memorable? What do I want to share with others? What would make ME proud? I thought long and hard, and a bucket list item came to mind: I’ve never competed in a fitness competition, and it’s something I’ve dreamed about since I was a young teen. Why not? For starters, I never actually thought I could. In fact, I was told I couldn’t: a family member, saying big dreams were for special people, not for me; all the ignorant folks who’d say I couldn’t build muscle as a vegan; others still who would tell me I was too old to start competing in this sport. No pressure, I’d just do my best and cross it off the list. This memory was for me.
I set myself in motion: I hired a coach with experience in natural competitions. I adopted a couple role models to study. I created a journal, with inspirational quotes and cutouts of a competition-ready body I admired, pasting my face over hers. I wrote down everything: every bite, every workout, my sleep hours, moods, emotions, fears. I had to see myself there. I created a schedule and eating plan, and refused to veer from it. I was going to do this in the healthiest way I could, drug-free and as a plant-based vegan. By this time, there were successful vegan athletes and bodybuilders out in the world, so I could learn from them. I also had to do my own research and find quality protein substitutes as I built my own meals. It wasn’t that hard, and it was rare that I felt deprived. Once I signed up for the competition I knew I couldn’t quit. I was finally going to do this—I had to do this as my 40th birthday celebration and get it done before I turned 41. And I did it. I trained my ass off, which, surprisingly, involved much more time spent in food prep and planning than it did working out.
***
It’s not glamorous behind the scenes. Backstage, a woman with a clipboard is barking orders to get us properly lined up to walk the stage. But before I walk out on that stage, I need to pee. Again. By now, my spray tan has been updated several times to get me to this current shade of overcooked-and-slightly-crispy. My tiny bikini has been affixed to my skin via Bikini Bite Butt Glue to prevent wardrobe malfunctions, so I hobble like a penguin on stilts to the bathroom and do my best to be careful. I pull my suit to the side, ripping some flesh and sparkles off in the process, and squat. But my quads are too fatigued to hover in the heels, so I plop back on the seat, creating a bit of splash-back on my legs on the way down. Normally, one wouldn’t notice, but when you’ve got 7 layers of fresh spray-tan… another story. I walk out of the bathroom with a huge toilet seat smudge on my rear and a very speckled—and obvious—paint job down my thighs, just in time to hear the lady with the clipboard calling out my name to get in line. Again, I do my penguin hobble-run, desperately seeking the spray tan gal, who is more than irritated that she has to give me yet another coat that will be dripping fresh as I walk on stage. I have to let any hope of perfection go, and focus: it’s time to pose-down!
***
I survived the first two rounds and am now back on stage for the final round, standing in line with a group of six other survivors, an incredibly warm and supportive group of women. The row of judges seated at the base of the stage are looking up at us, then down at their notepads, alternating their scribbling with whispers, comparing notes with one another. Up close, under the scrutiny of the intense spotlight, I can see what we’re hoping the audience in front of us can’t see: wobbling knees, streaks under our armpits where the sweat has melted our multi-layered spray tans (splatter marks on my thighs), makeup jobs that would make any self-respecting drag queen cringe. We’re teetering on top of our stripper shoes that feel more like clunky ice skates on this sweaty stage, flexing our way to perfect symmetry. Smoke and mirrors. Only one Pro Card is up for grabs and will be issued to the overall winner—and 6 of the 7 women on this stage have been vying for that card for years. I don’t know what I’m doing, and yet I can’t help but feel it: I’m going to place in this show! Just before going out, I was told: the judges rearrange the women on stage, and the closer one gets to center, the better. They’ll put the best three in the middle, then pick an overall winner from the top three. As the judges juggled our positions, I made my way to the center. It occurred to me: I’m going to win this thing.
I stand on stage, proud, teary eyed, and a little shell-shocked as the crowd and my fellow competitors cheer and clap as my name is called as the overall winner. Here I am, weeks away from my 41st birthday, holding a bodybuilding trophy and a Pro Card, as the emcee announces that my 40-year-old body was built on a plant-based diet. It’s surreal, and more than I had expected—this bucket list item, my Fucking Fabulous at 40 project—and I excelled. I did it. And I knew what I did to get there. This wasn’t luck. It wasn’t a fluke. It was hard-won and deserved.
What I did to create a winner in myself was simple, really, a recipe I wrote, followed, and adjusted as necessary. It not only applies to figure competitions, or weight loss, or sports performance. It’s universal, and it works for any endeavor. And here it is:
1. Know what you want, and why. If you’ve wondered about it, no matter what your circumstances or perceived limitations, there is a way. Even if it doesn’t look like the traditional way, I promise you, there is some version of your dream available to you.
2. Know this: Yes, I can. YES, you can.
3. Know how. Create a map to your destination. What are you willing/not willing to do? Be clear about this. What exactly will it take to get there? Map it out yourself, or hire a knowledgeable professional who’s been where you want to go to create a map for you.
4. Commit. If you follow your map, you’ll get there. Just know that you are responsible for your success/failure. Accept this: no coach, no diet, no extreme workout program, no act of the Goddess, is going to get you to your goal. If you’re not reaching your goals, you’re not doing the work. Roll up your sleeves. This will be hard work—there’s no other way. If you really want it, be willing to work for it. You must be willing to do what it takes. THIS is what separates the ones who succeed from the ones who scroll through IG (as I’ve done), wishing they could, someday. As they say… If it was easy, everyone would be doing it. It’s hard.
5. Be always the consummate professional. I learned this from author and screenwriter, Steven Pressfield, and it’s a lesson that has changed my life. Keep your goal in mind every step of the way, and always do what the winner would do—especially when no one else is watching. No cheating! If you want to weigh 135#, and that’s been an unachievable goal for many years, be honest: are you making choices in this moment that the 135# woman would make—be it in your workouts, meals, sleep, and planning? My bet is: probably not. And it’s quite possible you’re not being honest with yourself about this. Trust me: every extra sip, lick, and nibble, every skipped rep or shortened cardio session, will add up. You may not think you’re making a choice in the moment: but a teeny bite of cake here, a latte there, a few random chips, or a skipped workout will add up to a lot of pounds—gained or lost—every year. If someone offers you a cookie fresh out of the oven, the warm, chocolately chipness of it intoxicating, you must get to the place of asking: would the 135# woman I AM accept this cookie? Likely, she would not (unless it’s on a special occasion and you’ve planned for it). She would have the discipline to take a deep, luxurious inhale, politely decline, and request a sip of tea instead.
If you want to claim the success—in any endeavor—you must be willing to do what it takes to get there. There are no shortcuts.
FAQs
No, I did not use steroids. The WNBF is a natural federation, and takes this matter very seriously. I was drug-tested and had to submit to a lie detector test prior to competing. When I won, I was escorted off the stage for a second, this time witnessed, urine test (scared pee, be damned!) before they’d issue me the pro card.
No, I did not get bulky or huge, though my training involved some super-heavy lifting. My competition weight was 115#, a weight that is utterly unsustainable in real life. I had to reduce my weight and body fat in the weeks leading up to the competition so my muscles would be visible on stage. A month prior to the show I looked almost anorexic in clothes, and would wear long sleeves at the gym to hide my freakish veins! That was temporary and brief, and is the case for most competitors. In real life, I’ve always maintained a healthy 135-140# and continue to sport a cute amount of cellulite and padding on my rear.
Yes, I went on to compete (and place) again on the professional circuit. I personally didn’t feel the hormonal stress of dropping body fat to the extremes needed at that level + the constant focus on the external (i.e., my ass shape and size) was a direction I needed to go in for long, so have since hung up the sparkly bikini. Maybe I’ll revisit in the future, but for now, I’m enjoying a fuller-figured life.