It seems to be a symptom of our modern society, this so-called "freshman fifteen" — the phenomenon wherein college and university students pack on the pounds as a response to their new stress-filled sedentary lifestyle. And I, like so many before me, fell prey to its inevitability. Although, I don't know where this arbitrary number comes from (I suppose it gives a nice quality of alliteration), because by the time I was finished my four-year undergraduate degree, I was a whopping 30 pounds heavier.
I also know plenty of students who never gained a pound while in university, and a few who lost a bunch of weight while pursuing higher education, so I guess it's probably a crap shoot. Nevertheless, I want to whinge about my woes, so sit tight, and let me take you through my trip from a size 5 to a size 10 in only four short years!
Back in 2005 when I first decided to take the plunge into higher learning I was working as a shift supervisor at Starbucks — a job I'd held for four long years, and one that kept me on my feet and constantly moving. It, combined with the cost of living in The Most Beautiful Place on Earth, also kept me so poor that I survived mostly off of Starbucks prepackaged lunch items I had to pick out of the trash at the end of my closing shift.
The sandwiches, you see, contain ingredients like mayonnaise, and therefore could not be donated to homeless shelters the way the day-old baked goods were. No, and we were also forbidden from handing them out to the local homeless people (Vancouver has more than you can imagine), for fear that these less fortunate souls be industrious and decide to sue said coffee company for feeding them food that made them ill.
At first we would just take them out of the pastry case at the end of the day, but once they had installed cameras, it had to be documented that we indeed were placing them into the trash can and not "stealing" them. But I digress, the point is this: I was skinny and I didn't even know it.
I gave up this job, though, as I was off to bigger and better things! I also had this naive notion that I needed to give school my full attention, something I wouldn't be able to do with a part-time job keeping me down. So, at the start of my first year, I had a student loan in the bank and only my classes to keep me occupied.
Eventually, this predicament got old; I didn't know how to be a student, I hadn't been one in almost four years, and I quickly learned that a student loan in one lump sum, disappears real quick.
The job I found in my first year was at a small, privately run liquor store in the bowels of Burnaby. It was a lazy job and my coworkers and I soon found ourselves drinking on shift. It started out innocently enough: finishing off the dregs from a tasting done in-store that day. Then we began helping ourselves to the free samples attached to the booze bottles as a means of inciting customers to pick that particular product. Eventually, though, we were just buying drinks and hanging out in the office until a customer meandered through our door, causing the bells to tinkle and signaling to us that someone had to get up.
Selling alcohol while inebriated is a lot easier than you'd think. In fact, I'd argue we were friendlier and more sociable while intoxicated, having long chats with our most-likely-a-little-drunk-themselves customers. People buying booze really don't have any right to tell you off for smelling like alcohol — after all, you were probably just brushing up on your product knowledge.
Everyone knows the authentic college experience wouldn't be complete without a handful of drunken tales to one day bestow upon your grandchildren (or something like that). And needless to say, I had my fair share by about second year. However, having a job that requires so little movement, and so much "product knowledge" takes a tole on the waistline. Combined with late-night study sessions and a general dislike for the gym, you've got yourself a recipe for fat.
It was sneaky though, there was actually one summer where I managed to get back down to my original size, thanks to a grueling but awesome job on a honey farm. One month of physical labour and a whole lot of sweating, and I was back in my skinny jeans! It didn't last though, I went back to school in the fall and back to my job as editor of the student newspaper (which, as you can imagine, involves a lot of sitting, and a lot of drinking), and soon enough my pants were feeling tighter and tighter.
Four years is just long enough for those around you not to notice the difference in your size. And it's also long enough for you to know that there was always the option to exercise regularly — after all, the SFU fitness centre membership is included in your student fees, and there is no opting out of that club, so you might as well take advantage.
But I still have a fundamental hatred of jumping and giggling and sweating up a storm in the company of strangers. Especially when it gets you nowhere. I mean that in the sense that there's no instant gratification from a trip to the gym the way that there is at the end of a hike, or a game of beach soccer, or a day of wandering through a new city. After being at the gym, I feel fat and gross. And it doesn't help that a university gym is infested with varsity athletes (i.e. girls who can wear gym shorts that resemble leggings cut off at the very base of the butt cheeks because they're on the basketball team).
So that about takes us up to now. I don't live in Vancouver anymore, so there's no one around to remember me when I had a body built for a bikini, but I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to start doing something before it's too late. With that, I was given a chance to try out my roommate's gym for free, and the first step with these folks is to come in for a session with a personal trainer. Boy, was I in for a treat.
I was under the impression that this gym was bilingual, but from the moment I sat down with Bassem, I knew my French language skills were going to be put to the test. He would ask me a question in French, I would respond in English (usually this is the easiest way to sway a conversation into the language of your choosing), but then he would just keep at it with the French. Not only was about to embark on a totally new experience, but I would also be getting a very odd vocabulary lesson.
Let's just say, I have a new found respect for anyone who's ever been tortured — and, I suppose, any Hollywood celeb who ever "let herself go" and had to get whipped back into shape. There is nothing else quite like being coached to keep going (Fun Fact: in French they chant, "Courage!" at you too keep you from passing out) while simultaneously feeling like your body is going to just give up, no matter what you are telling it to do, and all the while having flashbacks to elementary school as someone mispronounces your Anglo name with a special shrillness only the French can pull off.
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