Your Social Brain is Telling You to Look Cute or Competent (or Both!)
It is wrong.
Note: I omitted to send this newsletter last Friday! My apologies. I’m working on the next phase of this project, which are short stories about runs I’ve been on, and I was so absorbed by that work that I lost track of the days. Here we are again, though, back on track!
TL/DR: Release Yourself from Caring What You Look Like
Honestly, I could leave this week’s newsletter at the headline, because that’s what this week is about: accepting and forgetting about how you look when you run.
Here's the thing: how you look when you run does not matter. I am short, curvier than most runners, and kind of have stubby legs if I'm honest. I'm not a not-graceful runner, but I'm also not a gazelle. And none of that matters, because how you look when you run is not part of the practice; it's not a visual art. Running is a tangible, movement based one, like dance. And unless you’re a performative dancer with choreography you must adhere to, how you look when you dance doesn’t matter, either.
Many times (usually in a whisper) people have told me what they hate about themselves when they run: they feel like they look awkward (Those elbows! Those knees!) or they feel like they look fat (chub flying everywhere! Boobs in general!) but I’m here to tell you: every runner has these issues, in some way. Some people feel like they look fat; some people feel like they’re too thin. Some people feel like they have a “weird” run; some people know — just know — their butt is either “too big” or “so flat”.
As an antidote to this, here are two things I “know” about myself:
I am an ugly sweater… And I’m not even being funny. I am truly ugly when I sweat. I turn bright red, so red that I have actually alarmed passersby… I sweat through all of my clothes. It does not matter if I’ve worn deodorant or antiperspirant. I sweat.
After I run, I look like a gelatinous blob. I don’t get all cut and sharp when I’ve worked hard. Somehow, it’s like all my skin and muscles turn to quivering, blobby jelly. For years I longed to emerge from a run looking like Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2, but it’s just not what my body does.
And the thing about both these situations is: it doesn’t matter. It. Does. Not. Matter.
That being said, I’m human, so even when one part of my brain is telling me not to worry about it, sometimes another part of my brain is pumping out embarrassed feelings about it. I know where those come from, for me and for you: our irrational embarrassment is a product of every piece of socialization that's told us that we need to be cute all the time and that we somehow owe that to the world. But we don’t; I don't, and you don't.
So that’s the message from the newsletter today: you do not owe the world cuteness or beauty, and running doesn’t depend on either of those things. Work hard to not worry about what you look like when you run, even when your brain itself is pulling you in two directions. Don’t worry about whether or not people think you look cool or perfect or if your form is good or attractive. None of these things matter.
Practice
How can we stop worrying about what we look like? It’s easy to say “don’t do this” and “work hard not to do this”, but how can we practically stop doing anything? Here's a way to practice: when you go run, purposefully don't look cute. No matching outfits; no concept of “outfit” at all. Just leggings or shorts and a top that works for you. That’s it. Insane, I know.
To be honest, I try to wear the most boring shit imaginable when I run, which I’ll skim through next week when I talk about gear. I take this “as boring as possible” approach because I know that the purpose of my run is to get in mileage or intervals, speed through those flats and climb those hills. I don’t want to be distracted by my socialized embarrassment, so I take a very utilitarian approach to what I wear when I run. Doing so helps me not get caught up in how I think I "should" look; it helps me distance myself from that vision of a perfect athlete. I'm not saying I try to look like a shlub, because that doesn't help me either; I just try to not focus at all on how I look because, again, it doesn't matter.
Here’s another way to practice: accept what you have to work with. For example, I have gray hair. Not just a few or a patch; my entire head of hair is silver and white and gray. What that means is that first of all, everyone knows I’m older than they are when I go to running clubs and second, that I have to care for my hair a lot. Gray hair doesn’t retain moisture and can easily sustain sun damage. So I wear a hat when I run during the day (a total bummer for a Ger Minimalist like myself) and I moisturize my hair multiple times per week. Is it a pain in the butt? Kind of. Is it what I have to work with? Yes. I accept it, and try not to think too hard about it.
I’ll see you on Monday on YouTube and IG; sign up for those so you never miss a post! I’ll be back Friday on this newsletter as well. For today, remember: go run.