Overheard in a waiting room:

Man #1: "Well, that's just sick how O.J. got away with all that. Just plain sick. Somebody should do something about it."
Man #2: "That's the Lord's job. O.J. will have his time of reckoning, and the Lord will sort everything out."
Man #1, unironically: "Well, when that happens, the Lord had just better not give him any leeway."

Received in the mail today:

My membership registration and temporary membership card. From the AARP. Um, what?

Taken a couple of weeks ago:

I worked at a YMCA camp for many years. When parents signed their kid up for camp, they received an informational packet and some forms. The informational packet included some tips on how to make sure children came home with as much clothing as you had packed for them. One of those tips was to label shirts, pants, shorts, and towels with the child's name. Some of the parents who hadn't decided a priori that such labeling would be depressingly futile ordered personalized, iron-on labels through a coupon provided by the YMCA. Others squeezed their kid's name or initials in permanent ink onto the tags already present on the clothes.

Dustin Chipchase's mom didn't believe in such subtle approaches. Indeed, she found the prospect of loss so alarming that she took a laundry marker and emblazoned her son's name in letters at least an inch high across the front of everything he was to wear. Nor did she believe in things like "spacing out the letters" or "centering." On some garments, she wrote the name right under the neckline (see figure 1). On others, she found herself short on horizontal space. When she reached the right margin of a shirt, she simply turned it over and finished up, which meant that "Chipchase" ended up looking rather like a hiccup (see figure 2). Clearly, such results disappointed her, but it seemed that making the letters smaller was out of the question. Instead, when she ran out of room, she continued on a second line, with the text flushed right. It was important that she never do something as straightforward as hyphenating after "chip" (see figure 3).

We had a game, a bunch of us camp-staff-types, that we used to play on days off or when the season had just ended. We would sit in a circle with glasses full of something cheap and alcoholic, and we'd toast to campers. The idea was to come up with the name of a kid who was either famous or infamous in camp circles, and creativity was a good thing: It was better to toast to the kid who had talked the exchange counselor from Russia into letting their cabin group roast "marshmallows" made of cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol—and then top off the evening off with a panty raid—than to toast to the kid who couldn't seem to keep her cornmeal mush out of her hair. Dustin Chipchase's name often seemed to come up towards the end of those games. He was a trump card, a laundry-marker legend, a signal that it was time to move on to a game that didn't require all the players to drink on every single participant's turn.

I was wondering today what had become of him; he must be in his early twenties by now. So I Googled him.

My search - "Dustin Chipchase" - did not match any documents.

I've always had problems with swim goggles; I just didn't seem to be able to find a pair that wouldn't leak. I tried goggles made specifically for women, goggles with special foam that's supposed to mold to your face shape, goggles with little eyes, goggles with big eyes... some were better than others, but all of them more or less sucked. I tried out a new pair this evening, and was delighted to discover that I had found a pair that didn't leak, not even a little. The brand? Speedo Juniors. Yup, I now wear kiddie goggles.

Some of the men who use that pool do silly things all the time. I'm guessing they do these things in an attempt to look strong, fast, and generally fuckworthy. Unfortunately, it doesn't work. The one that stands out most is when they stride purposefully out of the locker room, hop in the pool, and give me one of those "I'm gonna smoke you, so don't get in my way" looks. In the past, I've instantly hated any guy who gives me that kind of look, and I've seen it a lot over the years. As an adult, it has come most often from men who don't think women have any business taking up space in the weight room. In elementary school, it came from boys who complained when there were "too many girls" participating in a race or playing on their kickball team. In high school, it came from boys who hurled themselves across the volleyball court during PE in order to hit a ball that was coming directly to me. Or from the track coach who announced that no girls were signed up for the long jump in an upcoming meet and requested volunteers, but responded to my raised hand with, "You? I meant someone who could jump more than six feet." Nothing could have ensured my participation in the event more effectively: I would do the goddamn long jump, and whatever I lacked in talent, I'd make up for in spite. I don't even like the long jump, but I did the event that entire season. I refused to quit until I placed at districts and felt I had proved my point.

These looks I got had absolutely nothing to do with my performance, by the way. I intentionally chose examples of activities I either am or was pretty good at. It wouldn't annoy me nearly as much if someone didn't want to pass me the ball in a game of basketball, because the chances that I'd screw up the play are really quite high. I might still be annoyed, because the only situations in which I'll agree to play basketball are times when I'm with a group of people who get half-crocked and then decide to go to the park, and if you can't lighten up and pass to some incompetents in such a situation, then you shouldn't play basketball with motley groups of half-crocked people. However, I won't be infuriated. I won't want to crush you. I won't root spiritedly for anyone who can crush you if I can't get the job done myself. I won't want you humiliated, demoralized, preferably crying.

I really don't have many buttons, but clearly, this is one of them. I imagine most women have felt this way at one time or another, but I think it's perhaps a little more tempting for the men who do this sort of posturing to write off people who look like me: short even by short people's standards, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a round face that pretty much no one finds threatening. I can walk onto a plane flying out of Las Vegas wearing a friggin' pirate hat without inspiring a single person to actually check my identification—and this was after September 11. Children and animals trust me. I wear kiddie goggles. All this is fine. Except for the airport part; they really dropped the ball on that one. None of this means you have permission not to take me seriously.

It doesn't bother me as much as it used to, though I'm sure that doesn't come across as the overall gist of this post. But it's true, mostly because so many of the people I see this attitude in no longer own condescension and prowess in a matching set. As a result, their displays are just kind of sad. I have a hard time getting worked up over someone who does such a top-notch job of making an ass of himself that I feel embarrassed on his behalf.

Which brings me back to those pool guys. So, there's the purposeful stride out of the locker room, hair still dry. Then, there's the hop into the pool and the "I will smoke you" look. Then, there's a flailing of the arms, a kick that leaves a frothy trail, and a whole lot of gusto. For about one length of the pool. They slow down considerably on the return, and after completing maybe four lengths, they pull themselves up the ladder onto deck, gasp for a bit, and head back to the locker room. It's like watching a long build-up to a magic trick when the rabbit that's supposed to come out of the hat is in plain sight under the table. There's no shame in getting tired—everyone does at some point—but I can think of few things I'd like to be less than a peacock without feathers.

Somebody on the freeway just came very close to making my little Corolla into a smashed-up little Corolla. Why? Because's it's raining in LA, and lots of LA drivers are assholes, and while being an asshole LA driver is dangerous as a rule, it's much more dangerous when it's raining. When you do something like note that it's raining and then get on an LA freeway—none of which, I should mention, have decent drainage, because CalTrans doesn't believe in drainage—and decide to slam on your brakes while you're going 15 miles an hour faster than everyone else, you shouldn't find it terribly surprising when you hydroplane, lose control of your vehicle, and do four or five complete 360s while you careen across four lanes of traffic and into the carpool lane.

You should find it surprising that you: 1) didn't slam into the concrete wall that marks the left edge of the carpool lane; 2) didn't hit anyone as you made your way to the carpool lane; 3) didn't roll your truck; 4) didn't get rear-ended once you had come to a stop; 5) aren't lying on the road, waiting for an ambulance, wondering how many people you just injured—maybe even killed—and hoping that none of the travelers approaching the site of your accident drive like you, because you're already in plenty of pain, and being run over is no fun.

So, yes, you should be surprised about all of those things. I wish you would not drive like that. I especially wish you would not drive like that while you're in the lane next to me and directly to my left. In case you're not sure where things went wrong, here is a helpful guide that might help you avoid future incidents.

Shasta's Guide to Driving in the Rain for People in the Greater Los Angeles Area

1.) Slow the fuck down. Your speed should be determined by road conditions and visibility, not by your habits. For example: if you normally travel at approximately 80 miles per hour, going 70 miles per hour because it's raining does not count as "being cautious."

2.) Knock it off with the tailgating. Especially you. Yeah, you in the Canyonero. Your vehicle is twelve times the size of a reasonable person's vehicle, and the fact that you have one daughter who plays soccer really doesn't justify the fact your SUV is larger than some people's apartments. You require more time to stop than people driving other vehicles. Remember that thing when you took your driver's test—that little rule about one car length for every ten miles an hour, leaving even more room when driving conditions are bad or when you're driving a heavy vehicle? No? I thought not. You'll want to review that one. If there's just no way, no possible way you can leave that much space, then you need to make some room in your botoxified head for the notion that six feet isn't going to cut it.

3.) Turn off your fucking phone.

4.) Did I mention you should turn on your headlights? If I forgot that one, it's because it seems just so obvious to me, but it isn't so obvious to many of you. It will be much easier for people to avoid hitting you if they can see you. Lights help.

5.) Do a little yoga and repeat to yourself the following mantra at least ten times: "My reasons for being on the freeway right now are no more important than other people's reasons for being on the freeway right now. I am not more important than other people. I can be crippled or suffer brain damage just like people who haven't spent $25,000 on plastic surgery can. An accident could kill me, or worse! It could make me ugly!"

If that's too much to remember, I have another version.

Shasta's Abridged Guide to Driving in the Rain for People in the Greater Los Angeles Area

1.) Stop being such an asshole, even if it's just for a little while. You can start being an asshole again when you get out of your car.

This last one is an inside joke. Sorry. It couldn't be helped.

So, there are these old weight charts that were developed in the 1950s by insurance companies. There are all sorts of problems with these charts; they failed, for example, to take body type or activity levels into account. As a result, the ranges provided in the tables were unrealistic—and indeed, unhealthy—for large numbers of people, particularly for shorter women or for anyone with a more athletic build. One of the most influential of these charts was the 1959 chart developed by Metropolitan Life. Met Life has since revised those charts, but unfortunately, many doctors and health organizations continue to use the 1959 charts as a baseline.

Another formula often used—and I don't know who came up with this idea, but it's worse—is that women should calculate their ideal weight by allowing 100 pounds for the first five feet of height, and then adding 5 pounds for each inch of height after that. The resulting number could be adjusted plus or minus 10% to provide a "healthy range." So, according to that formula, the base number for a woman who's 5'5" would be 125 pounds. A wide variety of people and organizations still rely on this basic formula or a slight variation of it.

Here's the problem, and I'll use myself as an example, because I have data on myself, and it's just easiest that way: I am five feet tall. Therefore, according to the above formula, I should weigh 100 pounds, give or take 10 pounds. I do not weigh 100 pounds. I can't remember the last time I weighed 100 pounds. Nor do I weigh 110 pounds. I do remember the last time I weighed 110; I was 14 years old. What I weigh is about 119, which would mean, according to this formula, that I was on the verge of obesity and facing numerous weight-related health risks.

Even if I had no other way of gauging where I "should" be in terms of weight, that wouldn't seem right to me. I'm certainly not immune to distorted body image, and I can pine for a smaller ass and a flatter stomach along with the best of 'em, but even if I decided to believe someone who told me I should weigh 100 pounds, I suspect that it wouldn't be physically possible for me to lose 19 pounds without making myself really sick. This becomes more clear to me when I spend a few minutes playing around with calculations based on body fat percentages.

It can be difficult to obtain a reliable measurement of your body fat percentage, particularly if you're depending on someone who's using calipers to measure your skin folds, but who doesn't really know what they're doing. Many gyms and some doctors now have these fancy bioelectrical impedance devices that provide more accurate results. There's a margin of error, certainly, but if you take multiple measurements on different days under similar conditions, and then average the results, you'll be about as close as you can get without doing an underwater weighing.

So. The numbers. What the keepers of the fancy device tell me is that my body fat percentage at my current weight is around 21.8%. Of course, that doesn't mean anything unless you use some sort of chart to interpret it, and these charts can be totally inconsistent. In general, it seems that the charts you'll find from organizations dedicated to general health provide higher numbers in the "healthy" category than do health clubs or organizations that focus specifically on fitness. You can find a fairly typical general chart here, and a fairly typical health club version here. If you know your body fat percentage and your weight, you can use the formula from this page to figure out how many pounds of your total weight are fat and how many are lean body mass.

For example:

My current weight is 119, and my current body fat percentage is 21.8%. If you multiply those, you'll get a total for pounds of body fat.

(119 pounds total) x (.218) = (26 pounds of fat)

You can then subtract the pounds of fat from the total weight to figure out how much of your weight is muscle, bones, organs—that sort of thing.

(119 pounds total) - (26 pounds of fat) = (93 pounds of lean body mass)

Since the idea when you lose weight is to lose fat, not muscle, bones, and organs, you can use these numbers to come up with a much better idea of the kind of weight range that would be healthy for you. You can also use them to demonstrate just how bullshit some of the old formulae are.

For example:

If I think my goal weight should be 100 pounds, and I know how much lean body mass I currently have, I can subtract the lean body mass (because I want to keep all that) from the goal weight to determine how much fat I'd have at that weight.

(100 pounds total) - (93 pounds of lean body mass) = (7 pounds of fat)

Because you have all those figures, you can set up a simple equation to figure out how that translates to a new body fat percentage. If you're working with 100, the equation part is really unnecessary, but whatever. I'll write it out anyway.

(pounds total) x (body fat percentage) = (pounds of fat)

So...

100x = 7

Divide both sides by 100 to isolate the variable, and you get .07, or 7%. Looking back at this chart, we can see that women need 10-12% body fat to live. Even if I lost only fat on my way down to 100 pounds, I'd be lunching with Karen Carpenter. If I lost only fat to get to 110 pounds, the very upper end of that stupid formula's range for my height, my body fat would be 17%. While that percentage isn't dangerous, it's getting there. That chart I've been referring to lists the range for "athletes" as 14-20%, but it's important to remember that many athletes—particularly in sports like distance running, gymnastics, and skating—have body fat percentages that are way too low. (If you're interested in more specifics, here's an interesting article on the topic. I haven't fact-checked it, because I have a research fetish, but I also have limits.) Indeed, while the numbers vary for different women, many start to develop all sorts of problems, including amenorrhea, low blood pressure, and lowered bone density, when their body fat percentage drops below 17%. Clearly, 110 pounds isn't a realistic upper limit for me; it's barely high enough to be a safe low-end limit.

The point is not that this influential chart doesn't work for me. The point is that much of the advice we get about what we "should" weigh is terrible advice that can have devastating effects not just on our self-esteem, but on our health.

And that, my friends, is the story of why young gymnasts always look slightly deformed, why you should never rely on an actuary for health advice, and why you should love your ass. I can write a sentence like that if I want to, because even those of you who thought you were going to make it through this whole entry stopped reading when I wrote the word "equation." Still, I'm posting it anyway, because just when I find myself thinking that people already know this kind of stuff, I remember women I knew in college who taped pictures of Victoria's Secret models to their mirrors with annotations like "ME IN JUNE." Screw that. Screw the fact that I completely understood. And screw Victoria's Secret; they send me too many catalogs, and the last bra I bought from them has an itchy spot in the back.

Knocking you out with my Scandinavian thighs,
Shasta