Whatever I write around this subject, I need to remind myself that I am not killing anyone.

How do I know?

Because Catherine Deveny told me so.

So, I lay a challenge down to the Fitness Industry to examine the messages that are universally accepted about training and exercise and how they apply to women.

But first lets take a moment to clarify this furry word (for some) “feminism.”

I got told recently by a woman, (not in 1985 recent, but in 2015 recent) that she could not relate to feminism because she liked the door being opened for her.

WTF?

Does feminism mean the death of manners? I don’t think so.

Lets be clear. Reading my work, will not mean you participate in a fun run without your bra. And cyclists can still shave their legs (or not).

Put simply, feminism means equality.

{And if Tony Abbott can call himself a feminist, then you know what? It is now officially available for everyone}.

So why feminism and fitness?

There is a fundamental question that should linger over every training technique / philosophy / fitness programme that every Fitness Professional should ask and every client should ask of their Fitness Professional.

Has this information been derived by men, on men, and for men?

 And if it has (which is the vast majority of the training techniques / philosophies / fitness programmes) then it may not be suitable to women. There are certainly times when women’s bodies enjoy and respond positively the same as men’s, to particular training stimulus.

But here’s the kicker:

Women have different hormonal changes to men. Not only during the month, but reflected greater in the cycles of their lives. How a young woman trains is different to how she should train when she is pregnant, to when she is postnatal and again the needs change as menopause hits and beyond.

Muscle response to hormonal change in a woman’s monthly cycle cannot be ignored. Pre-menstrual means increased relaxin, in short, more risk of injury as muscles will react differently to stimuli. Often it co-incides nicely with women commenting, “I’m not feeling up to it, I’m premenstrual”. This is not a time to engage in the Go Hard or Go Home mentality. If you are a woman, do you listen to your own bodily cues? Does your trainer ask you where you are in your cycle and prescribe exercise accordingly?

Now lets challenge the female cycles of life.

When a pregnant belly is protruding it is obvious her exercise needs have changed and she has more at risk areas. Her training needs to keep her fit and strong in preparation for labour (they don’t call it labour because it is a picnic!) and for beyond. Not to mention all the research that backs up how keeping active helps with positive body image whilst she changes shape.

But once the baby is born, she is no longer pregnant! So surely she can go back to the programme she had before she was pregnant? Right?

Wrong.

Any birth, including C section should be considered a contact sport. We don’t allow our footballers, who incur soft tissue injuries to get back on the field without any rehabilitation!

We certainly don’t tell them, they have to go hard to get their bodies back.

Many women experience tears or cuts at birth, which may or may not include stitches. This is so common, that it is mistaken for normal, and accepted by midwifery, medical and mother as part of the process. Again, this practice would simply not be accepted in the athletic community.

The reality is that women who have had children are now in another cycle of their life. Many think that the term postnatal woman refers only to the 6 weeks post birth. This term applies to all women until they reach the third major cycle in their lives, menopause.

Postnatal hormones have changed again and so too have training needs. This is the window of opportunity to amass their bone density before menopause sets in. It is also the high-risk time of becoming one of the 50% of women who experience prolapse* and join the one third of women who experience incontinence. If they are the 1 in 5 woman who have a hypertonic pelvic floor (when it is over tight and may also result in wetting themselves), doing more pelvic floor muscle training (kegels) will not only be ineffective, it will most probably make matters worse.

However, we do not want our postnatal women to sit on the couch either.

Remaining active has been proven to be the best remedy to PND.** One of the biggest influencer of prolapse is obesity or BMI (which incidentally again, should never be used in reference to women as it to was devised on men, by men, for men). Postnatal women need strength training, but it has to be done in a way that keeps their insides.

No point being Las Vegas on the outside if Minnesota is happening on the inside.

The next hormonal upheaval for women is in the delicate time tottering between a fertile woman and not. Part of the menopausal process is the lack of estrogen that is essential for the elasticity in our muscles. Simply put, our pelvic floor muscles, which are solely responsible for stopping our knickers catching our insides, are compromised.

And perhaps you are thinking… you know what? I’ll just go and have my bits refurbished along with a tummy tuck! Remember, that pelvic floor surgery may still be trying to attach muscle to bone – tricky on any place in the body. And if surgery does work for you – it is just like a knee or hip replacement… it does not last for life – 8 to 12 years only. And every time you mess with these delicate parts that are full of nerve endings and responsible for you having toe curling orgasms (at any stage of your life), they will be compromised.

The advice given to many women post pelvic floor reconstruction is “take it easy for 6 weeks and then go back to what you were doing”. If inappropriate exercise got you on the surgeon’s table in the first place, not only is this foolish advice, but again, does not reflect the common sense that would prevail on an AFL team.

Did you know that one of the biggest factors that elderly are put into aged care facility is incontinence?

Surprise! Surprise… this affects around 90% of women in their post-menopausal years.

There is no dignity in diapers.

Feminism and Fitness.

Imagine if we appreciated the risk factors of hormonal shifts and gave options, education and information (health literacy and health promotion) to our female clients?

Imagine before every training session, a check was made on where women are in their cycle of the month and cycle of life and exercises and exercise intensity was prescribed accordingly?

Imagine if women exercised to enjoy positive body image, yet managed to keep wee-free and prolapse free?

Imagine if women could age with dignity and remain active?

What is good for men simply may not be appropriate for women. Women’s needs change with different cycles of life.

Women are not a special population.

It is just about equality.

*Statistics from Continence Foundation of Australia

** Emily Norman of the University of Melbourne in 2010 study concluded that the number of women identified as ‘at risk’ for postnatal depression pre-intervention was reduced by 50% when receiving specialist exercises as well as parenting education.

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Sometimes it is about being in a totally different environment in order to make life decisions which project you away from your ordinary routine. In this case it was a casino in Argentina. This country is famous for tango, beef and red wine, specifically Malbec, from the Mendoza region. So I thought it rather appropriate to grab a bottle of Malbec and work out my life plan for 2016 in a casino adjacent to my hotel. Travelling solo, security is paramount but also getting out and about exploring new places and meeting interesting people. A surprise for me on this journey was meeting myself!

I have carefully packed for my imminent departure back to reality in Melbourne and this is my last night in Mendoza. One of the treasured items in my backpack is a blue scarf given to me as a birthday gift from my best friend – light and functional as it can protect me from the sun as well as look glamorous in the evening. I team that with a sky blue top and black pants and my one pair of high heels and head out for the evening. It was either high heels or hiking boots or thongs. Such was my array of shoes for the South American adventure. I choose style over comfort this evening for a change! There was a door to the casino from my hotel foyer. The neon lights were calling. I step through the door into a world of gambling and numbers.

Once past the scanning machine like they have in airports, I ask the security guard if there is a restaurant in the casino in my fundamental yet enthusiastic Spanish. He looks at me quizzically and then declares there is a bar up the back and points vaguely past all of the brightly coloured gambling machines and people clustered around tables shouting sporadically and pointing to black and red squares. I head over to the bar, order a bottle of Malbec and begin to think about what I want from 2016.

I need some structure and a lot of spontaneity. I write out the days and months for December 2015 and January 2016. Why wait until 2016 to start my new life? It starts now! I have booked into a Gunnas’ Master Writing Class two days after I return. Hopefully the fuzzy head peculiar to jetlag has gone by then. Or maybe it will enhance my creativity! I have a job interview and various appointments I never seemed to find the time to do in my busy contract job before I left for my trip to South America. I am a people person and I am energised by people around me. It is hard for me to be single and forty plus at times. My amazing parents are there to meet me at the airport and welcome me home. My brother and sister call to check on how I feel after my trip. I schedule a couple of days for family time when I return and then a couple of days to catch up with friends with a writing class thrown into the mix.

What else can I plan? I have no job when I return to Melbourne. I see this as a blessing and an opening to new opportunities. I do have a mortgage to pay so I need to latch onto these new opportunities fairly quickly. I plan to write! I plan to start my small business in career counselling for refugees and new people to Australia.

I am already writing. I have started my small business. It is only two days after my return. I hiked for four days and three days to Macchu Picchu in Peru in the middle of November. It was tough both emotionally and physically. I perceive it as a feat of endurance and self-acceptance.  I had sore feet afterwards too. I am ready for my new life.

It is now Saturday, 12^th December. I have just finished the writing workshop and have the opportunity to get this piece published on Catherine Deveny’s website if I get it to her by 10pm this evening. I walked my dog Beau first in the sunshine at the local park. He needs his exercise and will distract me with his beseeching eyes and thump of the tail if I do not do this first. I love to walk outside in nature with him. Good for the body and soothing for the soul. It is 6:38pm and I have almost finished this piece.

Hard to believe that on Tuesday, 8^th December I sat in a casino over a glass or three of red wine on the other side of the world planning my life for 2016. I even lost a day when I travelled from South America back to Australia. My new life has already begun and 2016 has not even started yet.

Life is a precious gamble and what better place to plan for it than a casino?

To engage with Kylie for future writing opportunities, please contact her at kylierossi@yahoo.com.

Her name is Vikki. We met via the usual dating site gizmo. I never realised it when I read her profile but she was “Christian-Other”. Of course it came out when we met face to face. She belonged to one of those churches. You know, the singy, crazy, everyone join in and give money to the preacher style ones that build huge edifices in the outer burbs, and attract great hordes of the dull and stupid every Sunday.

Fuck. A Christian. Kill me now I thought. Nothing worse than a born again – they want to convert everyone, or drown us all in the candy flavoured shit of their wonderful realisation. Only she wasn’t really like that. She was smart, sassy, no bullshit, fuck this, God that and Jesus fucking Christ this. Not your usual family assortment style bible basher.

She was the other sort of Christian. Messed up. Reformed addict of the worst kind. Thief, liar, general all around bad to know person. That was 9 years ago until NA. Now she’s clean and not that long ago found the Man. Dates Him every Sunday. Really it is like she’s having an affair.

“Meet a good Christian boy,” I said, “they won’t insult you on purpose or accidentally with their casual blasphemy and disdain for organized religion.”

“They’re all either porn addicts, complete twats or unable to speak to girls because they’ve never done it” she carefully replied. “Most of them are just wet and not in the way that makes me so”.

You know it is doomed. You know you just can’t get over that dammed dependence on religion or something. Seems to me like really she just swapped one drug for another. One addictive behavior for a more socially acceptable one. I give her my theory of: religion = weakness of character. She doesn’t bite.

So we start dating. This will all end in tears. Why is it only the fucked up ones that have guts and spark? What does that say about me? Why do I attract birds with broken wings?

Shane Murphy is a freelance writer. More stuff of his over here

So I slowly rolled over this morning as a wave of vertigo washed over me. Through the fog I did the usual stocktake. The pillow beside me was cold so he was either up and about or more likely had already left for work. Light was seeping in through the curtains so it must be nearly time to wake up. I checked the phone through blurry eyes. Friday. 7am. What does that mean? Resting my heavy head back on the pillow, the nausea rising and the disconnected thoughts scrambling to make sense. I struggled to pull it all together.

Then it dawned on me. The Writing Masterclass. Why, oh why did I do that? There will be people there. People I don’t know. I will have to drive to the city. I have to go someplace I have never been. Where am I going to park? Have I enough money for parking? Will I have to talk to people? Will they judge me? Can I back out? It’s a lot of money wasted if I just pull out for no reason. I am not a writer, that is my sister – not me. All my life that has been her role. How long before they figure out that I am a fraud?

OK, the anxiety had set in. Waking the boychild was easy enough but the breathing was starting to race. Showering was an ordeal as I forgot the simplest routine. Have I washed my hair? I don’t remember. Will they notice that I need a haircut? I should wash it again just in case. I had set out my clothes the night before, having checked the forecast, but stood in front of the wardrobe again for what seemed like ages deciding if the choice was appropriate. I am not fashion conscious. I am an obese clotheshorse. I wear what fits to suit the weather. And yet I changed outfits 3 times before returning to the initial choice.

By now the panic was rising. Breathing fast. Sweating. Tears. I told myself time and time again that this was something that I had wanted to do for such a long time. I had the support and encouragement of those around me. I have been relatively well the last few days, both physically and mentally so this is a good day to do this. This is something for me. Just for me. But, how long before they figure out that I am a fraud?

So, how to defeat the monster? I know all the tricks. I have been here before. I know many people who have also been here before and have shared their own tricks and I know what works for me. First step – With a cup of tea I sat and wrote a list of what I needed to do between getting dressed and actually walking into the room for this Masterclass. In the background, the boychild was getting himself ready without fuss so I knew I only had a few minutes. That was all it took to regain composure and focus. Deep breath, gathered everything together that I may or may not need today and out the door.

Action has always been a good way to push away the anxiety. Being on the road was a good thing. School drop off without issue. On the freeway well ahead of timetable. Traffic lighter than plan. Phone was charged. Travel mug full. It was time to breathe and give myself a chance to actually get excited about the day ahead. I had heard so much about this woman. I had followed her for a while. Traffic has never really bothered me if time is on my side, so it gave me a chance to think about what I wanted to get out of the day. But, as the roads started to clog and the radio announcer started to get belligerent with his guest, so too did my thoughts turn to the “what ifs”. Starting with “what if I am late?” Having always been the “good girl”. I am never late for anything within my power and as anxiety builds in my life this concept rules my actions more. How rude to be late when this woman is offering such an amazing opportunity. The fact that we are paying her is irrelevant. “What if my booking didn’t go through properly and there is no room in the group for me? I’ll have to go home” The humiliation. “what if I have a dizzy turn in there?” I dunno. “What if my batteries run out and I run out of energy and I have to go home early?” Two-fold: it’s rude to leave early and what a waste of money to only get half the session. The other thing is if my batteries run out and I stay I will have no energy left to drive even to Pete’s work so I will be fucked. “What if the group is made up of real writers?” They will soon figure out I am a fraud.

I made it. On time. My palms were sweating. The droplets running down between my breasts, under my arms, around my hairline. It may as well be 35 degrees out there. I struggled to breathe evenly while introducing myself to the women I met as we made our way into the café. No tears, I told myself. Not now. They won’t bite. Everyone seemed relaxed and friendly as we casually climbed the stairs to the room above the restaurant. And then I fucked up. It couldn’t have happened at a more predictable, inconvenient time. The floor started moving, my head spinning, eyes blurring, I couldn’t breathe. So dizzy I had to sit down and wait for it to pass. Talk about making an entrance. Why couldn’t I just be a wallflower?

As the day progressed, the nerves receded. Hearing the stories of others was fascinating. Each and every person had a genuine tale to tell. And the way the group was run and managed meant that Catherine was able to draw out the real reason for each person being there, sometimes pushing for more or something different. Putting pen to paper became natural for each writing task she set. The challenges seemed like something I would like to incorporate into my days. But, in my heart, throughout the day I was waiting for someone to figure out that I am a fraud.

Lunch came and went. My energy levels sapped. Cognitive functioning waned. Ability to string 2 words together became more than a chore. I knew that I should probably leave if I wanted to make the drive home clearly, but felt compelled to stay. Not from obligation to anyone else, but because I wanted the chance to draw every last bit of advice, any pearls of wisdom from the mouth of this woman who had stood before us all day. She had entertained, educated, enquired and admired. I knew that there was plenty more on offer but only a couple of hours left and I was drawn to absorb all that I could.

4pm. Time to finish. Wrapped up final exercises, tips, words of advice, merchandise, marketing and contact details. I knew then that I had what it takes to write the stuff that I want. I know who for. I know format. I know title. I know how I am going to fit it into my day. I know it will start with the Gunna Challenge. I know that I don’t care how accomplished the other members of the group are.

I know that I am not a fraud.

27 November 2015