The Nike Mannequin, The Telegraph, and The Nonsense In-Between

Tanya Gold has really caused a stir with her article for The Telegraph titled, ‘Obese Mannequins Are Selling Women a Dangerous Lie’. Now I could go on a highly charged rant of vitriol, however I feel that this has been taken care of online. With a clear and significant backlash to this article, it’s dubious accuracies and wild judgments, I have decided to pull out parts of the article to produce a sound (and I’d like to think, more informed) albeit brief evidence-based explanation as to why she is so incredibly far off the mark. Instead of producing angry hate speech to cause death by a million tweets, I will instead use logic and science to put this shit where it belongs, on a fast track highway to the crapper, the sewer and beyond.

I fear that the war on obesity is lost, or has even, as is fashionable, ceased to exist, for fear of upsetting people into an early grave.

Starting out by announcing defeat in ‘the war on obesity’ really just sets the tone here: that fat bodies are an enemy not to be reckoned with. Particularly the fear Gold expresses in response to such a loss in such a misguided “war effort”. Our bodies are not built to be war grounds. No body should be a No Mans Land, yet so many are.

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Feminist Artist, Barbara Kruger captured this idea brilliantly (1989)

Yet the new Nike mannequin is not size 12, which is healthy, or even 16 – a hefty weight, yes, but not one to kill a woman. She is immense, gargantuan, vast. She heaves with fat.

Next up, we have Gold’s description of the mannequin in relation to it’s size. I’m not sure about you, but to me the description, “immense, gargantuan, vast” sounds like she ought to be describing a woman of godly power, perhaps Aphrodite or Artemis and their pull over the universe as Goddesses. Unfortunately she’s not; she’s just describing a mannequin that is oddly enough, the average size of the UK woman. As for “heaving with fat”, conjurs the image of something monsterous like Jabba the Hutt. Ladies and Gentleman, here we really do have a fine example of pure hatred for fatter people, otherwise known as fat-phobia.Gold goes on to express her disgust and concern for the Nike mannequin health. Ah, that classic move of unsolicited health concern for 👏🏻a 👏🏻mannequin👏🏻 who must be at least pre-diabetic due to her size. It seems the health of a mannequin in leggings is really keeping her up at night.

She is, in every measure, obese, and she is not readying herself for a run in her shiny Nike gear. She cannot run. She is, more likely, pre-diabetic and on her way to a hip replacement. What terrible cynicism is this on the part of Nike?

Apparently she cannot run and, if she is running she is pounding her self to a hip replacement. Being active is a healthy behaviour no matter what your size. Sometimes there may be some practical considerations for example, if someone has been bed bound for years: this is not the case for this sized mannequin. There are more and more athletes emerging who do not fit the stereotypical size 8-10 toned jogger of New York’s Central Park, which is brilliant for diversity and incluion in sports. Welcome to the modern world, Gold!

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Holley Mangold: Olympic Weightlifter (lifting her way into an early grave apparently)

Advertising has always bullied women, but this is something more insidious. I have watched the spindly, starved creature – the child ballet dancer – who was, for many years, the accepted ideal, walking down the Paris runways in so much make-up you could miss the signs of malnutrition. It was an ideal designed to induce enough self-hatred that women would shop to be rid of it.

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I would never want a woman to hate herself for what she finds in the looking-glass. But to have control over your body you must first know it; to be oblivious is not to be happy, unless you are a child.

The purpose and function of our body seems to have been lost on Gold. Perhaps she missed the memo but our bodies are not an entity of which to be controlled. They are a vehicle through which we live our lives. They do not need to be under microcosmic control and scrutiny in order to do this well. Nature and evolution has pretty much nailed maintaining homeostasis for the average person of average health, irrespective of their weight of body shape. Equating happiness with control over your body is also highly problematic and really gives an idea to the channel through which Gold’s perspective is coming from: a lens so clouded by diet culture that she cannot possibly fathom being happy unless you feel in control over your body. This notion is one common in eating disorders, albeit to the extreme. It is a mentality sold to us by diet culture. It is a mentality that is on the opposite side to progression.

The fat-acceptance movement, which says that any weight is healthy if it is yours, is no friend to women, even if it does seem to have found a friend in Nike. It may, instead, kill them, and that is rather worse than feeling sad. Fat-acceptance is an artifice of denial – they are fat because they do not accept themselves – and a typically modern solution to a problem, if you are a narcissist. It says: there is no problem. Or if there is, it’s yours, not mine. As soothing as that may be to hear, your organs and your skeleton will not agree.

Screenshot_2019-06-14 #haes hashtag on Instagram • Photos and Videos

What is obesity? I would say, as a recovering addict myself, that it is most often – but not always – an addiction to sugars, and a response to sadness. And, as with all addictions, the only person who can save you is yourself.

Sugar addiction is not real.

Sugar is not addictive.

Sugar is not crack cocaine.

Screenshot_2019-06-14 Image about girls in Food 🍓🍩 by Catherine P on We Heart It

We need to stop demonising singular and isolated food components as the heathen to health. It doesn’t work like that. If we had more responsible and accurate reporting (I’m looking at you BBC and Dr. van Tulleken), the verocity of misinformation may not be so rampant and rife that a mannequin in workout wear could cause such a stir.

Nike can be as accepting as it wishes of the obese female but your own body will not be so accommodating of your delusions. The facts are obvious. Stay that weight and you will be an old woman in your 50s. The obese Nike athlete is just another lie.

The Nike mannequin letting bigger people know that they are welcome to be a part of Nike, physical activity, running, yoga, and the health and fitness worlds in general is not a lie. Exercising is not restricted to slim people only. Exercising is not a thin priviliige. There are much worse consequences to other life choices, i.e. smoking, than being a bigger woman in life.

But, increasingly, to say that is heresy. I have seen fat-acceptance activists campaign for public health notices, which tell people that obesity causes cancer, to be removed from public spaces. They even tried to get a Cancer UK poster, which tactfully reminded people of the risks, taken down from hoardings.

Here’s a basic science principle which is why the Cancer Research obesity poster was not appropriate: correlation does not equal causation. There is no direct and evidential proof that being in a bigger body causes cancer. There are associations however, there’s so many life style and genetic factors to take into account: physical activity, nutritional density of the diet, fruit and veg consumption, trans fats consumption, and factors that cannot be controlled such as: poverty and deprivation, high stress environments that allow for little life autonomy, local pollution levels, exposure to hazardous materials etc etc. With so many other factors to consider, some of which are more closely associated with cancer than others – yet still the scientific principle remains that correlation does not equal causation.

How selfish, self-piteous and dangerous this is: obesity harms children more than adults. I once read a column arguing that fat people die young because doctors hate them. Really? Why don’t you lay down your pen and just stop eating sugar?

Where is the body shape between the tiny and the immense, which is where true health lives? Where is the ordinary, medium, contented woman? Where, oh where, is the middle ground?

The only statement I agree with in the whole article: that the middle ground between any extremes of body size weight or shape are associated with the best health outcomes and statuses. It’s incredibly dull and boring, and it isn’t a message that sells magazines or papers, or drives website traffic, but it’s the happy medium where the best health outcomes lie.

Brighton Marathon: The Unlikely Road To The Satisfaction of Socks & Sandals

Marathon running is more of an exercise for the mind than the body. Making your body run 26.2 miles in one go without stopping is tiring work, don’t get me wrong. The real task though is how much can you endure on the day? How much can you dig deep and keep going when the sweeper bus stops to ask if you want to climb aboard the not-so-fun bus. Through the window you can see tired broken people, tears, distant stares and silver blankets prematurely adorned.

You may have seen in the media recently the upset caused by London Marathon for the 7:30 pacer and her fellow backpackers, recruits on the day to finish the route in a requested time frame – and even so, they received hurtful words, and constant goading for 26.2 miles. Like I said, a marathon is a mental game of keeping going enough as it is, so for the people who held their chins up and refused to give in – fucking well done! I was offered aboard the sweeper bus three times, on the last coming dangerously close to caving.

It has now been a while since I ran Brighton, fully recovered and got back into the swing of normality without marathon madness, and had time to reflect on what went better than last year, not so much and lessons learned. I got a 20 minute PB on London last year. Brighton is not an overall PB kind of course; it’s hilly, windy, bleak, lonely, miserable and undulating in the most undulating sense of the word undulating. Did I mention it was uncomfortably undulating? I got a PB for half marathon distance, which now stands at a 2:51:44 according to my Garmin.

When Dad and I crossed the start line we were amongst the final handful at the back of the pack, even further back than Dave the Running Samaritans Phone. The course doubles back on itself a lot, which can be motivating and soul destroying in equal capacities. Some times it gave me the illusion that people were not all that far ahead so keep running and that’ll be you on the other side of the road soon. In the same breath, seeing people running the final kilometres of the race as I was just crossing halfway was a very bitter moment for me.

For the first few miles dad and I took it in turns to over take one another, back and to back and to. I took off. (This sounds much faster than it really was.) We thought we had said our goodbyes for the rest of the course, until I stopped for a toilet break. This is all well and good except there was a few of us, and as I waited my dad caught up to me. At the time this was a relief because his phone had pocket dialled me a number of times. I had phoned him back to no answer and consequentially in true anxiety girl style, I jumped to worrisome conclusions of heart attacks, rolled ankles and muscle cramps. He catches up to me and he’s just fine. His version of events is that I keep calling him. He had no idea he’d been phoning me so all was well. Not far behind my Dad though was the sweeper vehicle.

The sweeper vehicle is not for road sweeping; it is for people sweeping. Slow people sweeping, injured people sweeping, poorly people sweeping, the sweeper bus of broken hopes and dreams chased me from that moment in the race right until the end, threatening to gobble me up in a sorry mess. This shit me up. I won’t lie. So I bloody well got a wiggle and a wriggle on to try and make some ground on the sweeper bus of broken people.

With my London Marathon experience having been such a dreamboat, I do wonder if perhaps Brighton was a bit miserable because I had a normal marathon experience. When you hear about people with Bipolar, a classic “mania story” is of someone running a marathon without training. I am by no means special, others have done it including Jedward (way to put myself down there), and I”m sure many other idiots like myself. I’m not sure everyone who commits to such an act of stupidity however has such an epic day out with it. The power station miles in particular were just horrible.

Each time I was running towards the town centre I realised that the view and sightings of Brighton pier were very much deceiving in how close I really was, or was not to the half way point, and on the way back in from the other side, from the finish line. The second half of the race has since been very much talked about as being a wind tunnel of misery amongst fellow Brighton runners on social media. The power station miles provided very little to look at and very much to overthink about, like the pain emanating from my lower half of my body. It was grey. It was cold. It felt more like the march of the hobbling zombies than a marathon at this point. Eventually, the 23 mile marker came and i could finally, finally say to myself “it’s just a park run to go”. It was around this point when i was kidding myself that I saw my Dad on course for the last time before the end. Up until this point, every time we had seen each other we high fived, did a thumbs up and beamed a smile at one another, evidently pleased with the results of our high hopes and poor training. Not this time; I needed a hug.

Just passed 23 miles I could see the pier in the distance, which signified the finish line on the horizon, much like a mirage in a desert, but it wasn’t sunny or sandy, it was grey and concrete. The joy soon wore off as the sighting became a torturous tantaliser of the end that never seemed to come. I kept going and kept going, catching up to the team pushing a dying man in a wheelchair, and eventually saw a friendly face. Jarnail from Chasing Lights was cheering and despite having not seen him for months I dramatically threw myself at him for a hug, and to snatch a brief moment of less gravity on my feet. He ran the remainder with me until he was ushered off the course. It really helped me to have that someone running with me. No amount of sugar, or electrolytes, or sports drinks could have rivalled the support of finding a friendly face in the crowd who is willing to jog along side you. Then another friendly face shouted me, my friend Maryke then joined us too, and then another, Elle. Then the finish line set up came into view, and I could not have been happier tho see the finish I’d been so patiently awaiting to arrive on the horizon since mile 23.

As soon as I sat down on the other side, having survived my second marathon, I put on my socks and sandals. I felt like a very stiff and rigid champion wearing the footwear of dreams: socks and sandals after a long race are indescribably wonderful. When I saw my Dad coming out of the finishing area we had another longer hug. I think he was a bit broken because we don’t do long hugs very often, but after gruelling distances and challenges when he admits he’d like to cry and doesn’t, we instead have a long hug.

In the end, I feel blessed to have the privilege to run a marathon for the sheer challenge of it. I felt blessed that my friends had come to support me, eat food with me, and that my dad was there too. After all the life difficulties I have had with my dad, I think running sickly distances together has really brought us closer together – and that is as good a reason as any to keep doing them. It was hard, and I probably won’t be doing Brighton again next year but never say never.