Jill Gleeson's Blog
  • Home
  • Blog: As Above, So Below
  • Home
  • Blog: As Above, So Below

Gleeson reboots

Alongside Amy Schumer

8/7/2016

22 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Last year Amy Schumer almost drove the Internet into convulsions when she casually noted at the Glamour U.K. Women of the Year ceremony "I'm probably, like, 160 pounds right now and I can catch a dick whenever I want." While the moment was noteworthy simply for a woman owning her sexuality in such a forthright manner - does anyone really think she was kidding? - what actually drove social media mad is that a woman dared to reveal how much she weighs. And not a supermodel skinny woman, either. A woman with actual pockets of flesh on her body. Maybe even stretch marks and cellulite, too.

God, I love Amy Schumer. I love Amy Schumer so much that when T told me after we watched "Trainwreck" that I reminded him of her I thought it was a compliment. It was only following our breakup that I realized in retrospect it was almost assuredly not. The same way it wasn't a compliment when he said that I reminded him of Scarlett O'Hara. I thought that was a compliment at the time, too, because I've never bothered to watch "Gone With the Wind," so until some friends clued me in I didn't realize Scarlett is what you could call willful. A bitch, if you want to use hate-speak.

Anyway, I weigh 174 pounds, give or take. There, I said it. I'm 5'9" and I'm big, with long, long legs and gorilla-length arms and broad shoulders a hefty ass. My dear Thomas in Ireland, the man T wooed me away from, once said as he walked behind me, both of us disabled with drink at the time and nearly falling out of the pub door, "Ach, would you look at the size of ye, girl! Your shoulders are as wide as mine." (They weren't, but I felt a momentary weird pride at the suggestion.) 

I've - I guess confess is the right word? - I've confessed how much I weigh because I promised rigorous honesty and I plan to keep you updated on my weight loss as I continue to train for my big climbs next year. Also because I find myself becoming increasingly sick of fretting about what people, men to be specific, think of me. For most of my life I've obsessed about my weight. My father, who I love with all my heart, unwittingly drilled it into my psyche early on that looks are all that really matter when it comes to women by only talking about looks when it came to women. I've long suspected that no matter how smart, funny, kind, talented, etc. etc. I am, if I'm not pretty none of that actually matters. And in our society pretty women don't typically weigh 174 pounds. Or even 160.

Except they do, don't they? Amy Schumer is glorious, pudge and all. And after spending some quality time peering at those photos
Tamar London took of me, I think I look swell too, pudge and all.

Don't agree? That's okay. I can catch a dick whenever I want.





22 Comments

The Journey of 1,000 Miles

7/20/2016

8 Comments

 
Picture
Courtesy Tamar London
I have a tendency toward impulsivity. Something bright and shiny and thrilling and BIG pops into my head and I think "Ooooh! Good idea! Let's GO, baby!" Leave my family and friends and everything I know to move down to Tennessee and in with a guy who has TWICE before cracked my heart open like an uncooked egg by breaking up with me the moment real commitment or true intimacy became involved? "Ooooh! Good idea! Let's GO, baby!" 

We all know how that turned out. Though I can say now, six weeks out from when T walked - no, ran is a much more accurate word - six weeks out from when T ran out of my life I don't regret that move to Tennessee. I regret plenty of other things about our relationship, but not that. Because if you're going to be impulsive about anything, it might as well be love that at its best was so true blue if it had a color it would be the shade of the sky over the desert after a storm. No matter how big the hurt it eventually brings. 

Of course, you're catching me at a good moment. Ask me how I feel about it when I'm sobbing at the dining room table before my stricken parents in the middle of supper and I might not be quite so perky about the whole thing. I still cry. A lot. Not every day, but close. I still, if you want to know the truth, cannot quite believe he's gone. At best, I miss him right down to my bones. At worst, I find it ridiculous that I'm expected to continue on without him. At very, very worst, like last night, I'm seized fully with a terror of the future looming in front of me, sinister and ugly, like a dark shadow in a desolate alley. Of the alien aloneness of it. T left. My brother is dead. When my parents are gone, I'm it. The last woman standing.

Anyway, as you might have guessed, I did not agonize over the decision to climb two of the Seven Summits in '17. I began with the idea to tackle Kilimanjaro next summer. I remember thinking something along the lines of "The last time T broke my heart I moved to Ireland for five months. This is the last, last time he will break my heart. So what in the hell do I do now?" And there came the image of Kilimanjaro, unbidden, blasting its way into my brainpan. Almost immediately I decided to blog about the experiences I would have as I trained to climb the mountain, thinking maybe it might not only do me some good, but also a few other people. People like me, who had lost so much they were in danger of losing themselves, too.

Then a few days later I heard that a lot of people climb Killi, about 25,000 annually, so shortly after that I decided to up the ante and add Aconcagua to my list. Only about 3,000 a year try it, maybe because it's known in South America as "The Mountain of Death." And then I got a web designer and a trainer and a photographer and went public with the plan and...here we are. The whole process, from "Ooooh, good idea! Let's GO, baby!" to now took three weeks. I want to think there is something magical in that - the speed, the ease, with which it all came together.  

But now it's finally hit me, exactly what I've done. And I'm so scared. Not precisely because of the climbs...it's more the failure that could come with attempting them. Suppose no one reads my blog? Suppose I can't find any sponsors? Suppose I just can't do it? Because who do I think I'm kidding? I'm just a frightened, desperate mess. I'm not brave or a warrior. I'm not even a jogger. How in the hell am I going to get this nearly 50-year-old, out-of-shape body up two of the tallest mountains in the world? I really have no idea, other than to work harder than I ever have before and listen to the guys at Victory Sports and Fitness. 

​I had my fitness assessment at Victory last week. I was nervous, really nervous, because I pictured getting asked to do a pull-up, failing miserably, and everybody in the gym laughing at me, which is pretty much what happened in 5th grade. But instead Rob, Victory's energetic and charming owner, simply evaluated my posture, flexibility and range of motion. He discovered that my left calf is slightly less developed than my right - and assured me we'll get that squared away. He found that both my big toes only bend about half as far as they should. We'll deal with that, too, because I need my feet in good working order for Summit Day on Aconcagua, a 12-hour trek to the top. My scapulas, however, are in great shape - strong enough, Rob assured me, to bear the pressure without a shoulder dislocation if I take a tumble during the ascent and catch myself with my hands. That's as long as I don't fall 65 feet into a crevasse, like two Americans did on Aconcagua a few years ago on New Year's Eve. I'm not telling my parents about that.

A couple days after the evaluation I had my first session with my trainer, Steve Jury. Steve is about my age, with a big mustache and kind eyes. I like him very much. I also trust him to know what I need to do to get up those mountains because a couple months ago Steve did just that on Kili. The day I met him he showed me pictures of Africa he'd taken from the top of the world. In a few he's perched in front that epic, endless landscape, the place where man began, smiling so wide you'd think it was the best day of his life. Maybe it was. 

Our first session surprised me. I don't know what I expected - Steve hurling medicine balls at my stomach while screaming at me to "Feel the burn," maybe. Instead, mostly what I did, along with a little cardio and some serious ankle and big toe stretching, was breathe. Flat on my back at first, later with arms held over head, then legs extended out and finally while on all fours, I breathed. From my diaphragm, with lips pursed, pulling my belly in with every exhale. It seemed easy enough. Too easy. Breathing? 

"Baby steps to big steps," Steve said. 

I liked that. Steve also said "Suffer now and summit later," which I liked even more. It sounded tough, like something I can chant to myself when I want to quit during a workout or practice climb. I understood the concept more clearly by that evening. My core, from my pelvis up to my breasts, had begun to ache with a dull, consistent pain that I hadn't felt the likes of in a long time. It's the pain, I suppose, of beginning. The pain of hope, too, perhaps. Because hope hurts just as much as it soothes, doesn't it? That's the hell of the thing.

Baby steps to big steps.






8 Comments

Grin and Bare It

7/16/2016

27 Comments

 
Picture
Picture
Picture
Picture
This, aside from writing my brother's obituary, is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I promised myself - and you - honesty.  And so much of this journey will be physical. It will be built of muscle and bone, flesh and ligament. Blood, too, I'm sure some of that will flow, running in streams alongside a torrent of sweat and hot, salty tears. I'm not kidding myself that in order to be remade I won't need to be dismantled first. I don't know what ascending two of Seven Summits next year will cost me, but no matter how dear the price I will gain so much more than I give. 

Part of that profit will be greater strength. Increased flexibility, better balance. A dividend of energy not possible for me to imagine in my current state. My body, so long only a vessel for pleasure, will become a temple of pain. But I will emerge from it healthier than I've ever been in my life.

​In the meantime, here is the beginning. Me, exactly one week from 50, the day before I begin training. No retouching in these photos - all sags, wrinkles and lines are presented here, in their full glory. Acting against every instinct, I didn't hold in my tummy. Hell, I didn't even get a pedicure first. It's terrifying, laying myself open like this. But to see how far I've come, I need to be truthful about where I began. 

By the way, these gorgeously shot photos? They were done by Tamar London. She made me more comfortable getting photographed in a sports bra and bike shorts than I ever would have believed possible. Those smiles are real - we were laughing so hard it's a wonder she could shoot anything at all. If you're anywhere in Central Pennsylvania and need a photographer, give her a call. She's magic. I'm so grateful she's joined my team. 
27 Comments

    Jill Gleeson

    Jill Gleeson is a journalist based in the hills of western Pennsylvania. She is a current contributor to The Pioneer Woman, Country Living, Group Travel Leader, Select Traveler, Going on Faith, Wander With Wonder, Enchanted Living and State College Magazine, where her column, Rebooted, is featured monthly.  Other clients have included
    Woman's Day, Gothamist, Washingtonian, EDGE Media Network, Canadian Traveller, Country and  Country Woman. 

    Email me! 

    Archives

    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    October 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    April 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016

    Categories

    All
    Aconcagua
    Adventure
    Before Pictures
    Family
    Fear
    Gratitude
    Healing
    Heartbreak
    Kilimanjaro
    Loss
    Mountain Climbing
    Radio
    Screwing Up
    Sex
    Success
    Training
    Weight

    RSS Feed

      Join the Journey

    Snag Our Newsletter
Proudly powered by Weebly