A Smidge More Testosterone Probably Wouldn't Hurt Right About Now

A while back someone asked me which part of the female body I like best. Actually, I don't know if there really was a someone or if I just asked the question to myself while walking down the street one day. I get a little confused sometimes between the Conversations I've Actually Had and the Conversations I've Imagined Having. At any rate, I couldn't come up with a single answer, and trying to find one got me lost in a reverie about the beauty of the female body and all its magical little hills and valleys.

Yet, as much as I love the female form in all its variety, I have to admit, there is one little part - well, maybe not such a little part - of the male anatomy that is just so darn hard to replace...

The arms, you perverts. I'm talking about men's arms.

Today was Day One of my intensive new workout program designed to increase my muscle mass and get some muscle tone in places where I am lacking it. My previous approach to working out was a little too focused on the losing of a certain spare tire to the disregard of other parts, including and especially my self esteem. As I don't want to take the Lindsay Lohan/Nicole Richie route to thinness, I've shifted my energy to lifting weights, which makes me feel strong and empowered rather than as if I'm wasting away.

And oh, have I ever made a shift. I left the gym this morning ravenously hungry for protein, and now I'm so tired I could fall asleep at any moment. Also, my finger bones ache. Which is a little strange, but hopefully that's normal.

I won't bother to try to impress any of you with how much weight I can lift. Let's just say that it will be a number of years before I can upload a video of myself bench-pressing TCGIAOD. As far as my triceps are concerned, though, suffice to say that, in a pinch, I could lift a newborn baby or perhaps a frozen turkey overhead using them. So the next time you need a frozen turkey (or a baby) thrown to you overhand, you know who to call.

That said, I didn't actually work on my triceps today. I worked on my biceps, which proved to be a challenge, mainly because it can be difficult to find weights that are light enough to lift more than once without resorting to running down to the convenience store for a couple of cans of peas. I finally managed by removing all of the plates from one of those crooked bars, whatever they're called, and did some curls with just the bar. At one point, the gym ajusshi tried valiently to help me find some plates that were light enough for me to add to it, but as I was already becoming fatigued, I had to give up and switch to the even smaller hand weights.

And I have to admit, I felt really excited and proud when I reached that point of muscle exhaustion where your arm just refuses to curl any higher and any attempt to force it to do so results in a wild bout of muscle shakes and quivers. The fact that I reached that point lifting a mere 7.5 pounds was only slightly mortifying.

That was roughly around the same time that I looked up and saw a guy pick up one of the barbells I had discarded as unfathomably heavy and begin doing a rather nimble set of bicep curls in front of the mirror. He had those quintessential guy arms. They were about as big around as my thighs and looked like loaves of challah bread, except more so.

I suppose at that point, most girls would have giggled and swooned, and perhaps at another time, I might have too. But this time, to my surprise, I felt an odd surge of jealousy. I looked down at my own skinny little arms. My bicep looked like someone had shoved a small dinner roll under my skin, except not even a nice fluffy, buttery roll. Rather, more doughy and undercooked. I flexed it as hard as I could, but I couldn't get more than a moderate swell. There were no clear delineations between muscle and tendon and vein and bone, as the guy in front of the mirror seemed to have. When he flexed, it was like he was popping the skin off his arm and showing all its inner workings.

Before I give too much credit to testosterone, though, I did once know a woman who had arms like a guy. One day, she let me feel her arm after one of her workouts, and indeed it was round, rock hard, and well defined.

But don't get me wrong. I love TCGIAOD's arms, which are probably even less muscular than my own. I like how the skin is always soft and cool, and how they look just so in her little shirts with the puffy shoulders. I wouldn't swap them for anything. But that said, running your hand along a really muscular arm is an experience unto itself.

Maybe it's a good thing, then, that I'll probably never have arms like that. I'd probably never leave the house and would just hang around all day, lifting things overhead and stroking my own muscles in front of the mirror. I wouldn't be able to proofread articles or blog anymore, either, since my muscular fingers would no doubt stab right through the keyboard and into the surface of the desk. And we certainly couldn't have that, now could we?

How Space Nakji Blogs

In case you've ever wondered what I look and sound like while composing blog entries, waiting for entries to publish, and reviewing comments when they come in, you can get a pretty good sense of it from this video.

Enjoy.

Not So Hygglit At The Moment

It's cold out, the wind is rattling my window, and would you believe that all I can think about is Denmark? With the exception of a brief fascination with the Scandinavian social welfare system in high school, Denmark and its neighboring countries is a part of the world that, in the past, has rarely registered on my consciousness. Yet here I am, googling Denmark and wondering whether I would like it, whether I'll really wind up there someday, and when the heck I'll get to eat some more flodeboller again.

I think I wouldn't feel so apprehensive about what the future might hold if Denmark were a) an English-speaking country, b) a Korean-speaking country, or c) a warm country. I don't do so well when I'm cold and unable to communicate. I picture myself turning into a little hermit, bundled in sweaters and blankets and refusing to go anywhere near the windows and doors while my little social bee girlfriend flits through the snow from party to party. That would be okay, actually, as long as she came back to me at the end of the night. And she does own a Playstation. I could stay in and play video games and watch sci fi movies while she goes out and says funny things in Danish and turns really pink from all the strong Danish beer.

But then again, maybe that scenario wouldn't be much different if she were living with me in California. I'd still be a hermit, just wearing shorts or cranking up the air conditioning instead of lighting fires.

When she was in Korea, I got a little preview of what it's like to be dropped into the middle of a group of Danish-speaking people. It sounds a little like they're all underwater and the words are floating up in bubbles and bursting at the surface -- kind of low and muffled at first, then a rapid burst of consonants. I suppose that's better than being around Americans, who all shout over each other and talk like they're on stage without a microphone, or Koreans, who threaten at any moment to cover you in phlegm and saliva from all the back-of-the-throat "저어어어어~"s and the sudden intakes of breath through closed teeth. Actually, Koreans really aren't so bad, but I had to think of something.

If TCGIAOD spoke Korean, or had more confidence in her English ability, Korea would be ideal in some ways. We both have F-4 visa status and don't need to rely on each other in order to be here. But for a number of reasons, I guess it won't work as a long-term plan. So our choices, should we wind up together permanently, are either for her to find some way into the US without my help (damn you, conservative American marriage laws!), or for me to join her in Denmark as a domestic partner and face the rigors of Danish immigration laws. I'm okay with the idea of leaving Korea, but the thought of possibly starting over somewhere new -- new language, new culture, new social circles -- makes my head spin. How in the world did my mother do this with so little hesitation?

Pretty Boys, Gay Love, And Resisting Universality

I just saw 왕의 남자 ("The King And The Clown," why they didn't translate it as "The King's Men," which would have been more poignant, I'll never know) and one of the previews, naturally, was for Brokeback Mountain, which is hitting Korea in a mere four days. The preview alone was enough to bring tears to my eyes, so I guess I better launder my hankies now in preparation.

As for 왕의 남자, I'm glad I got to see it in the theater, as it is one of those movies that was really made for the big screen. If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend watching it.

A few questions/topics I'm left with, though, are:

1. Blindness, and what it symbolizes in Korea. There are Western readings of it, of course, as signifying impartiality (justice), seeing beyond the mundane world (oracle), and even castration/loss of power (oedipus). In the context of Korea, I think I've seen it interpreted mainly as related to han, especially women's han, such as in 심청가 and 서편제. So what was the role of it in this movie? I can't wait to see it again when it's out on DVD, so I can play closer attention to the lines.

2. Why is it that movies that feature a man and a woman gettin' it on, regardless of the circumstances, are simply what they are, but a movie that features tender and/or romantic love between men has to justified as "not really gay." People feel they have to rush to say things like "[It] goes beyond being a 'special', homosexual love and reaches the viewers as a 'universal' concept of sad love" (from a review of 왕의 남자) or "My character could have been played by a woman and it would have made just as much sense" (Jake Gyllenhaal). Wouldn't it be great if we could read a review of something like Romeo & Juliet and see, "This is not a story about heterosexual love. Romeo and Juliet are just two human beings who happen to fall for each other. 'Juliet' could have been replaced by 'Brad' and it still would have made sense."

Now, a post-modernist might here point out that the characters in Brokeback Mountain and The King And The Clown existed in a time or space where the concept of "gay identity" didn't exist or wasn't accessible. However, in my very subjective opinion, that doesn't change the fact that they experienced a very gay desire and a not-heterosexual conception of love and attraction. Does gay love have to be "universalized" or rendered comprehensible by heterosexuals in order to exist? Indeed, I can't help but feel that at least some of the beauty lies in the fact that it is different, that there seems to be something at the core that is not generalizable to heterosexuals. I know that makes me sound horribly essentialist, but dammit, I like not being the same as straight people.

Which is also why I wound up feeling critical of 번지점프를 하다 (Bungee Jumping On Their Own). While it was a bold movie in that it introduced some homoerotic situations, I feel that it failed the issue by presenting the two male characters as "really" male and female. A lot of people who watched the movie and initially felt uncomfortable or even grossed out wound up saying that it was "okay" since one of the characters wasn't "really" male. So in the end, it was just a story of heterosexual love triumphing over the challenge of homosexuality, rather than a story of two homosexual people finding each other despite the odds and social barriers.

[Of course, it's also worth pointing out that this "de-gaying" seems to happen more when it involves love between men, whereas many straight men will jump at any chance to describe any and every woman they see as "lesbian", because as we all know, "lesbian" can only ever mean one of two things: 1) woman who kisses, touches, smells, or has sex with other women solely for the viewing pleasure and at the demand of men; 2) man-hating bitch. We won't even discuss the word "bisexual".]

3. Class. There's so much that can be said about social class in regards to 왕의 남자. But I think I'll reserve my thoughts on that issue until after I see Brokeback Mountain, which seems like it might raise some similar issues.

OMG, I Hate The Entire United States So Much Right Now

And especially YOU, South Dakota.

S.D. House Approves Abortion Ban Bill

Some Dreams Should Come With Warning Labels

I have a more serious post up my sleeve, but since I have this thing about posting dreams, I figured I'd throw this one out there, too.

For the first time last night, I dreamt about work. I dreamt that I was sitting on a couch in a living room somewhere editing an essay and rewriting little portions of it on my laptop. Another woman was in the room, too, and we were talking as we worked. We may have even been in a motel room, but wherever we were, it was a ground floor room with a large plate glass window looking out onto a parking lot.

I looked up from my work a couple of times and saw a very tall, muscular, bald man standing on the far end of the parking lot facing our room. He looked a little like the guy in the Mr. Clean logo. Each time I looked up, he was standing a little closer to our room until finally, I looked up one last time to see him bust through the door and leap across the room toward me. He jumped on top of me, wrapped his hands around my throat, and squeezed. I tried to fight him off, but he was so big and strong, I couldn't even budge him. It was like pushing against a building.

I kept trying to look over to the other woman, but I couldn't even turn my head. The sensation of choking was so stark and immediate that, even now, I can recall the feeling with perfect clarity and start to feel panicked all over again. The dream ended while I was still looking up at the guy, and I awoke very abruptly. It was 5 a.m. That's the sort of dream where you turn all the lights on and walk around for a bit before going back to bed.

I hope that I'm not actually psychic, and somewhere, off in some faraway hotel room, a woman is lying on the carpet being strangled to death right now. That might just put me off of sleep for good.

Whoops! Forgot I Was In Public For A Second There

Has this ever happened to you?

While I was out walking tonight, I started having an imaginary conversation in my head with two other people. During this imaginary conversation, we were all seated at a kitchen table somewhere and talking about something; I don't remember what. At some point in the imaginary conversation, one of the imaginary people said something very, very stupid, so I stood up from my imaginary chair, kicked it out behind me, stiffened my muscles up until my legs and spine were ramrod straight, crooked my arms in front of me with my hands dangling, and let my jaw hang open. Then I groaned, drooled a little, and walked across the imaginary kitchen to the imaginary bathroom where I went in, closed the door, and peed.

I was getting so into this imaginary conversation and trying to imagine when I might be able to do it during an actual conversation, that I didn't realize I was unconsciously tucking my chin into my neck, stiffening my spine and legs, and extending my arms out in front of me. My mouth was hanging open, too, and I might have moaned a little; I'm not sure.

As soon as I realized what was happening, I snapped out of it and started walking like a normal person again. And good thing I did, too. You can't just go around acting like a zombie in public any old time. You're liable to get shot in the head or beaned with a croquet mallet or something.

In Your FACE, California Fitness

Finally. My long sought-after vindication for last year's gym fiasco has been achieved.

Over a year ago, I signed up with a very over-priced gym, and the only freebie that came with that membership was a couple of training sessions followed by a weigh-in and skin-fold test. Why didn't they bother to check my weight, body composition, resting heart rate, and general health conditions before putting me through a series of mostly useless weight training exercises and a handful of death-defyingly difficult ab workouts that were impossible to perform without the immediate presence of a trainer? That's a good question.

When they did get around to checking those things, though, I was surprised to find myself being told that my body fat percentage was an "unhealthy bordering on overweight" (her words) 29% and that I should lose one kilogram. (This is the part where I should note that I weighed a little less back then than I do now and was beginning to see my own ab muscles - something that's generally not possible on 29% body fat). They also told me I had bad posture, which is another story, but also sort of amusing for anyone who's actually seen me in person and wondered silently why I can't be bothered to remove the clothes hangers from my shirts before putting them on.

This dire estimation of my health and body composition was followed by fifteen minutes of sales pitches and entreaties for me to pay in advance for many, many hours of personal training. Because clearly, it was going to take a lot of work for me to lose that kilogram.

I left the gym that day feeling very smug and sure that she had performed the test incorrectly. Nevertheless, there was a nagging doubt in the back of my mind that maybe I was carrying a lot more fat than I thought. It's not unusual for someone who looks thin to actually be high in fat, especially when you're low in muscle. Over the next year and few months, my weight went further down, then up again, then down, then up, then sideways for a bit, and now here I am today, just a smidge heavier than I was then and with a little "U.S.A. prime"-stamped gut filling out the top of my pants.

For the most part, I'm very comfortable with my weight and shape. Relative to most other women my age, I'm secure in my skin. But even so, now and then, it's hard to keep the voices out, hard to avert your eyes from the ubiquitous photos of skinny, ass-less girls in size 0 jeans, hard not to believe that one can never be too skinny. At times over the past year, I think that a part of me genuinely wanted to become that girl, that painfully skinny, looks-like-she'll-break-if-she-falls-down skinny girl. Why? I have no idea. But I do know that the higher my numbers go and the more my gut pushes out, the more I want to be her.

Now, however, I'm on a new track. I've joined a new gym, and I've gotten a new assessment. This time, they put me on one of those machines that zaps little bitty lightning bolts through your body and magically spits out a strip of paper that says how much of you is fat, how much is water, how much is muscle, and how much is blood.

So, just how fat am I?

22%.

22%, Little Miss I-Tell-Medically-Underweight-Women-They're-Fat-So-They'll-Pay-Me-To-Train-Them California Fitness Employee. Take that!

I may not be a scary, muscle-rippling, I've-stopped-bleeding-every-month, below 12% body fat, but what I AM is healthy, medically normal, and in no danger of spiralling into obesity if I don't break the bank for personal training sessions immediately. 메에에에~~롱!

So what's my new exercise goal, now that the 언니 at my new gym is asking me how I would feel about gaining a little more weight and/or laying off the treadmill a bit and hitting the free weights, and I've once again purged my brain of skeletal, ghostly women telling me that life starts at size zero?

Well, there is that little problem of my low muscle mass...

Strategizing For Maximum Binge Power

LA in 9 days... that leaves me very little time to drop a bunch of weight and look sickly and emaciated enough for everyone to take pity on me and take me out for lots and lots of tasty food... and foot the bill, of course.

Dim sum, Vietnamese sandwiches, Thai iced tea, fried bananas and coconut ice cream, enchiladas, In-n-Out cheeseburgers, fried chicken and waffles, Ethiopian food sopped up with all that lovely spongy bread, roast turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce, chocolate banana cream pie with lots of whipped cream and a side of chili fries...

I wonder if I could talk my mom into baking another turkey, too. 'Cause all that kimchi fried rice she cooked for me last time just didn't do it, and besides, what was she thinking making 김치볶음밥 for someone fresh off the jet? Jeezus, pass the cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes already.

This Motel Room Is Martha Stewart Approved

More celebrity dreams last night. This time I dreamt that I had returned to Santa Cruz and was staying in a motel somewhere near the boardwalk. I wandered along the cliffs, saw a guy giving a great dane a bath from a garden hose, and contemplated moving back there permanently. Later, Martha Stewart visited me in my motel room, where she perused the decor and expressed her approval. Afterwards, she drove me up to the top of a mountain, which had mysteriously appeared on the edge of the water and very closely resembled the Matterhorn at Disneyland. At the top, she took me to a restaurant that was designed to look like one of those dome-shaped rooms at the 찜찔방 (sauna); all of the patrons were sitting on the floor to eat. While we were waiting for our food, a tornado formed over the ocean and began spiralling towards us. I grabbed my bag and ran for a tram that was going to take everyone back down the mountain. On my way to the tram, I bumped into Paris Hilton, who grabbed my hand and ran with me. The tornado chased us all the way down, but it turned out okay in the end.

Hopefully this bodes well for my upcoming trip back to California, where I will be attending my littlest nephew's very first birthday party, where he will no doubt be resplendent in gold rings and a very small hanbok. When I was home at Christmas, he got to try on one of his rings early (a ring purchased and messengered across the ocean by yours truly). Unlike most babies, who shake their hands and bite at their fingers to get the offending ring off as quickly as possible, my little nephew held his hand out, palm down, gazed at the ring for a long moment, then smiled up at us with a very satisfied look in his eyes.

Now, as long as no one tries to talk me into stuffing fifty pounds of Korean rice cake (for that authentic motherland flavor, of course) in my carry-on luggage, it should all go well.