No Weight to Escape

Ask someone her weight and she’ll look at you like just spoke Swahili.

Some people aren’t willing to weigh themselves unless they’re starving, soaked in sweat and sans clothing. With the bathroom door double-locked.

Imagine if you were forced to weigh yourself in public. Not the gym. Real public. Sound terrifying? Your nightmares can come true in the Netherlands. An ad campaign for the Netherlands branch of Fitness First has planted a scale on a bus stop that weighs the sitter as they wait. If that weren’t extreme enough, the bright red flashing numbers can likely be seen from a few block radius.

That attractive guy or girl waiting with you will know your weight before your name.

Fitness First believes this method will make people want to join the gym after their public reveal. Doubtful. The exposé is more likely to cause embarrassment than eagerness to immediately hop on the elliptical.

People despise weighing in at the doctors, let alone in front of a slew of strangers. Some people flat-out refuse to weigh themselves. Others lie about the number. The majority of women falsify their driver’s license and online dating profile weight.

Although I’m not ashamed about revealing my weight, the thought of a public weigh in makes me uneasy. Unless you’re vying for a $250,000 prize on “The Biggest Loser,” you’re probably not pleading for a wayside weigh-in. America’s fixation on weight is certainly unhealthy. For many, the scale is a mood-meter: A loss is an upper and a gain is a downer. This subway scale has the power to cause even more figure fixation.

We know weight is just a number, but few people honestly believe it. We’re a bit more anxious about lbs than logarithms, after all.

If street corner scales ever spread to America, you can guarantee that more people will be standing for the subway. Or, at the very least, they’ll take their doctor’s office mantra to the streets: Strip down as much as is socially acceptable before stepping—rather, sitting—on the scale.

Found: An Embarassment-Free Child

When it comes to predicting your child's athletic aptitude, ignorance might be bliss.

Imagine this: Your child just took his first steps and now the two of you are sitting in a sterile waiting room. He’s only going in for a simple procedure—just a quick swab of the inside of his cheek to examine his DNA—but you’re nervous.

Within a few weeks, you’ll know whether he has the talent to be the next Michael Phelps or Brett Favre—or if he’s doomed to a life on the third string. All thanks to this magic swab.

Atlas Sports Genetics, a Boulder, Colorado-based company offers this radical test. Through DNA analysis of the swab, they can determine your tot’s natural athletic prowess (infants to 8-year olds can be tested). This is done through analyzing the ACTN3 gene, which was found to predict athletic ability in a 2003 study.

The analysis takes just two to three weeks, and the results arrive as a certificate announcing “Your Genetic Advantage.” The test breaks down whether your child is geared for endurance sports (distance running, swimming or cross-country skiing), speed/power sports (football, weight lifting or sprinting) or sports that combine both (soccer or cycling). It costs $149, but for parents who spend hundreds of dollars on athletic equipment just for their son or daughter to warm the bench, the price is worth it.

At first, I thought this test sounded great. Sayonara to kids shooting hoops for endless hours…only to release airball after airball. No more embarrassing tee-ball strikeouts. All kids can be stars rather than be snubbed.

But then I thought of the flip side. Kids who are too young to say ‘ball’ are banned from catching one. Kids who have just barely learned to walk are barred from relay races. Little ones may reflect on their “Glory Days” before they’ve progressed to pull-ups.

Instead of hearing “You can be anything you want to be,” this test says there are limitations to your aspirations. Sorry baby, you weren’t born to run. Lift these mini, pre-diaper dumbbells instead.

I love sports, and have played a wide variety of them—basketball, volleyball, soccer, track, cross-country, gymnastics, tap dancing and ballet. For any of you who know me, I’m completely serious about that last one. My uncoordinated self attempted plies and pas de bourrées with the best of them. If I had taken this test, it would have read “Kristin should never set foot on a dance floor. Ever.”

Although I may have been the world’s worst ballerina, I don’t regret for a minute hat I donned a periwinkle tutu and twirled to “Rainbow Connection.” Even though I was in the back row.

Maybe this test will help you determine exactly which sport you child will succeed in, but is success all that ultimately matters? Some kids may strike out every time they go to bat, but that doesn’t mean that they’ll give up their love of the game. The Rudy’s of the world should keep striving for their dreams, even if they don’t necessarily have the innate talent for it.

Savoring the Samples

Free Food. Ah, the most delectable combination there ever was.

This marriage of America’s true loves causes nearly anyone to pull a break-neck U-turn at the supermarket. At sample superstars like Sam’s Club and Costco, lines for complimentary bite-sized bagel bites and Totino’s pizza rolls are nearly longer than the checkout lines.

Free samples are great, and even slightly filling if you’re willing to go against sample etiquette to steal an extra taste (or three). But could you imagine eating only freebies for a whole week?

Courtney, a twenty-something New York City journalist is doing just that. In her experiment ‘Free Eats,’ she’s biting her way through the Big Apple without spending a cent. She’s got sampling down to a science: “Method: Sample, take a lap, sample, sit down in the dining area, sample, exit and re-enter, sample, etc” she writes in her blog. She does buy a daily cup of Joe. If she’s going to starve, she’d prefer to be amped on caffeine.

She isn’t the only one who has jumped on the freebie bandwagon—people all over the country have become low-cost nibblers. The “Frugal Traveler,” a NY Times blogger, has given himself a $5/day budget. A CNN blogger is dining off food stamps. ‘Freegans’—vegan activists who hunt for free food for a living—even resort to dumpster diving to nab complimentary treats.

I’m an avid free sampler. My eyes light up when I see a tray of petite morsels sans a price tag. I go to Gateway Market hungry because I know I’m guaranteed a fine array of freebies. I’ll even pretend that I’m really interested in making a purchase to sneak an extra taste. I give the loaves of bread an extra glance—and sometimes even throw in a raised eyebrow to make it look as if I’m carefully considering the rye versus the whole grain—to sneak a bonus brownie when the baker is busy.

I wouldn’t eat off a stranger’s plate, yet I never give munching a tray of half-broken, picked-over snacks a second thought. Loaded with germs? Oh well, they’re FREE.

The free sample plan is a cheap, nearly sure-fire way to get you back in your pre-college jeans. Yet although I love all things gratis, the mere thought of it makes my stomach growl and my cheeks redden. These experiments may save the brave blogger a buck, but there’s shame in over sampling. There are plenty of ways to save and slim without having to play hide-and-seek with the butchers and bakers.

For now, I’m content with my one—okay, two—complimentary bites.

Death by Pancake

The nausea. The heartburn. The indigestion.

We’ve all had a time where one bite turns to ten and Pepto-Bismol becomes our best friend.

Fortunately, the effects of overeating are usually brief. We go into a minor food coma, have to pop open the top button of our jeans and vow to never scarf down another slice of stuffed crust again. Which, of course, is a complete lie.

Our binges can’t have immediately dire consequences. Or so we think.

_{Boris Isayey a 48-year-old Russian competitive eater, died in an all-you-can-eat contest last week. After successfully stuffing himself on 43 cream-and-banana filled pancakes, Isayey collapsed to his knees, started foaming at the mouth and then died on stage just as he was receiving his award. He was participating in a competition that marked the end of the region’s “Pancake Week.”}

Competitive eating contests have become a phenomenon. There’s even a franchise organization for professional competitive eaters, the Major League Eating [MLE]. Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi has become a legend for his food feats, most famously his ability to eat 53 ¾ hot dogs in 12 minutes. He was even named him one of the most dominating athletes in history by ESPN.

Successful contestants can make bank. The winner of the Krystal Square Off World Hamburger Eating Championship takes home $20,000, which is currently the largest competitive eating prize. But professional eaters take part in many contests each year. The most talented don’t eat to live; they make a living eating.

Being competitive and, yes, someone who loves to eat, I once participated in an all-you-can-eat fest in Macomb, Illinois. The town’s attractions include Western Illinois University, cornfields and, as of 2005, various competitive eating challenges. Needless to say, the showdown draws quite a crowd.

My belly buster: Watermelon. Sounds wimpy, right? Wrong. I chowed my way to 2nd place in the contest, behind my younger sister, Jamie who weighs 110 pounds but can eat nearly an entire gallon of ice cream in one sitting. We worked our way through seeds and skin until we were sick.

My $25 prize did, however, make my stomachache subside.

Competitive eating events are supposed to be fun, not fatal. Yet Isayey’s death by pancake shows that overindulgence can have more dramatic consequences than a session with the pseudo-sweet pink stuff.

Check out the competitive eater’s hall-of-fame here.

Love...And Now Marriage

I looked. I listened. And boy did I learn.

I saw the ecstatic tears flow freely from the couples as they embraced individually, yet celebrated collectively, upon hearing the verdict.

I felt the love of couples like Larry Hoch, 66 and David Twombley, 67, a couple wearing cable knit sweaters and wide smiles who appeared to have the same unbreakable bond as my two sets of grandparents—both of which have been married for over 55 years.

I watched Jamison, the two-year old son of Ingrid Olson and Reva Evans walk up to the podium in his decision-day best as his two mothers reacted to the decision that began before he was born.

I sat next to Tim McQuillian and Sean Fritz, a couple who became Iowa’s first legally married same-sex couple when they married in 2007 before a judge overturned a ban on gay marriage. I saw their emotions escalate as they realized that their second time wasn’t going to last four hours but forever.

Being part of this monumental event made me realize how much I have taken my own social rights for granted. As a white, heterosexual, middle-class, suburban Catholic girl, I don’t deal with social stigmas on a daily basis. I can answer questions about my demographics without worrying about being judged by my responses. I can blend into a crowd without caution.

When I went for a run post-press conference this afternoon, the first song that came on my IPOD was Hanson’s “This Time Around.” Embarrassing, I know. Yet I couldn’t help but ponder how poignant the last stanza was on this profound day:

You can’t say I didn’t give it

I won’t wait another minute

We’re on our way this time around.

We don’t have a crystal ball to foresee what ‘this time around’ means. But there are a lot of possibilities. Perhaps one day today’s verdict will outdate the phrase “coming out.” “Closets” may be used strictly to hold clothes, rather than a person’s politics.

People won’t have to wait another minute to be open because each moment will be the right one.