Kathrine Switzer runs in the 1967 Boston Marathon (from WBUR)

For those of you not living in Boston, today is “Marathon Day” — the day runners from around the world gather in Boston to run the Boston Marathon. It’s also a local holiday, so Hanna and I had a three-day weekend (hooray!). We have beautiful weather here: sunny and in the 40s. As Hanna and I were walking down to our favorite coffee & brioche bakery this morning, the Boston Police were blocking off the streets and trucks were delivering bags of ice and cases of bottled water.

This past weekend, one of our local NPR affiliates, WBUR, broadcast an interview with the first woman ever to officially register and run in the Boston Marathon, in 1967: Kathrine Switzer (click through for audio). Her running coach scoffed at the idea when she first brought up the possibility, but when she ran thirty miles with him in training he was forced to think again. They registered her by initial only (women weren’t officially allowed to race in the marathon until 1972) and she completed the race despite the fact that she was heckled verbally by officials and one man completely lost it and tried to rip her number off her back.

My mom ran a marathon in Chicago back in the 1970s. She also ran regularly for exercise when she was pregnant with me. The people who saw her jogging on the track harassed her about endangering my health, and she remembers Runner’s World magazine publishing letters to the editor by men complaining that women’s sweat was unattractive. Today, more than 11,000 women are participating in the marathon at all levels of skill … and I for one am grateful we live in a time and place where this is no longer viewed as remarkable or repugnant.

The conversation started because we were making fun of a series of French sex guides, one of which I had recently received as an advance reader review. This led to Minerva sharing a story about a straight college friend who had borrowed her guide to lesbian sex in order to educate her boyfriend (of two years!!) about her body. Soon, we were sharing stories about stumbling upon weird knowledge gaps among friends about their own bodies and how they work sensually: what feels good, how parts can go together, what parts they actually had, how arousal happens physiologically, the erotic uses of various toys, how to talk to your partner about what turns you on. Between the three of us, we had a fairly long list of girls and women we’ve known who’ve let it slip in one way or another that they have a profound lack of understanding about how their bodies work.

Which led me to write this second post in the series “Why I like the 70s”: the women’s health movement, Our Bodies, Ourselves, and do-it-yourself pelvic exams.

(NSFW naked picture and video after the jump)

DIY Pelvic Exam from Our Bodies Ourselves

It’s easy to caricature the women’s health movement of the 1970s, and their enthusiasm for consciousness-raising sessions where people whipped out hand-held mirrors and learned how to do their own pelvic exams or just took a look at what was down there. There’s something charmingly optimistic about their confidence that their own gaze, a sort of personal ownership of their own bodies, would be enough to erase well-schooled shame and ignorance. It seems simplistic in the face of the complicated miasma of carefully-cultivated bodily shame, sexual trauma, relational dynamics, and other cultural narratives that get in between us and our embodied experiences of pleasure.

But to me, it’s the simplicity of the DIY approach that actually makes it so awesome. As dated as the language of natural childbirth and consciousness-raising might be, I firmly believe that feminists of the 60s and 70s grasped the essential truth that sexual pleasure is grounded in bodily ownership, confidence, and intimate knowledge. They encouraged women to become comfortable with handling their physical selves, with touching and looking. They tried to normalize actual bodies (not just clinical diagrams or airbrushed models), demystifying the process of interacting with ones sexy parts. Even if in the name of health rather than explicitly sexual exploration, I’d argue that encouraging women to learn how their bodies — specifically their own bodies not just “the female body” in the abstract — function is a giant step in the right direction. Because it encourages people to engage with their physical being-in-the-world. It encourages us to be authorities of our own bodies.

It’s a fairly small step from knowing your body in the physical health sense of the term to knowing your body in the Biblical sense of the term … with your own hands, and eventually, possibly, if and when you feel desirous of it, someone elses’ hands. And mouth. And tongue and bits.

We might think we’re “too cool for school” when it comes to the women’s health advocates with their flashlights and hand-held mirrors. But I can’t say the anecdotal evidence I’ve collected over the past ten years encourages me to believe we’ve moved beyond the point when such elementary education in one’s own body is no longer needed. On the contrary, pretty much everything I’ve seen and heard encourages me to think we could use way more self-knowledge than we currently have. In that spirit, I bring you this three-minute You Tube video of Betty Dodson drawing the internal structure of the clitoris.

100% For. The. Win.

For some reason, this was the car I wanted when I was sixteen. (Hanna asks: "Can I lodge a formal protest?")

I didn’t actually earn my driver’s license until I was eighteen. I dragged my heels over taking driver’s education. My family lived in the middle of town, and I was within walking or biking distance of my job, my friends, and the college campus where I was taking classes part-time. Just before driver’s ed, my mother took my reluctant ass out to a country road south of town to give me some time behind the wheel before the first day of instruction. At the first corner, unused to the power steering, I cranked the wheel to the right and managed to do a 180 and land us in the ditch on the side of the road, headed back the way we’d come. Not an auspicious start (though no one was hurt). Still, I white-knuckled my way through the six-week course and soon passed my driver’s test — including parallel parking and highway driving!

Soon, I discovered that I loved loved loved driving. I loved being able to hop into the family minivan and take our golden retriever out to the state park for a run in the early morning. I loved being able to do the family grocery shopping. I loved the independence of being able to plan a trip to the movie theater or nearby Grand Rapids … or get to late-night classes without my parents worrying about my safety walking home late at night. It was exhilarating. Suddenly, my world expanded. Living in a city of roughly 80,000, with nothing but a skeletal bus service, cars were necessary for adult life.

In 2007, however, I moved from Western Michigan to Boston in order to pursue my graduate studies. I’d lived in urban spaces before, but never moved to a city with the intention of staying permanently — or at least, for the near foreseeable future. I moved out here and left the car I’d been driving behind, which my parents eventually sold. For the passed four years I haven’t owned a vehicle, only driving when we rent cars — mostly through the awesome organization Zipcar. Hanna and I depend on the Boston area subway and bus systems on a daily basis and, on most days, walk the two miles to work and — often — the two miles home as well. 90% of the time, this suits me fine.

But over the weekend, we rented a car to drive south of the city so Hanna could volunteer at a 4-H event and I got to drive. Whenever this happens, especially when we have occasion to get out of the city for a few hours or a day, I feel echoes of that exhilaration I experienced as a new driver back in the mid-1990s. It brings into stark relief how trapped I sometimes feel, living in the city where my daily life happens in a geographic area of a roughly 2-5 mile radius. I feel crowded. I miss the woods. And the big lake (Lake Michigan). Being able to get up on a Saturday morning, drive fifteen minutes, and be able to run five miles along the beach without seeing another human being. Less romantically, I miss being able to get in the car get the week’s groceries without worrying what two people can carry from the grocery store to the apartment (roughly a mile’s walk).  I miss having the option of driving to work in five minutes on a rainy day. I become exhausted planning a Saturday running errands that, back in Michigan, would have taken two hours but here are a day-long choreographed endeavor involving foot, subway and bus travel, and the juggling act of getting the spoils back home before dinner.

Yes, public transportation  is a wonderful, efficient luxury in many ways — and something that we should consider strategically on a national scale. I’m grateful for the opportunity to live within walking distance to work, be two blocks from a subway stop, and not have to work about parking permits, car insurance, and car payments. Not to mention gas prices! But none of these things quite manage to fill the automobile-shaped hole left in my soul when I moved east.

Have any of you made major moves during your life? What aspects of your previous life do you miss? Are there things about your new location that still feel alien to you, even if you’ve lived there for years?

Yes, it’s a Mr. Darcy cross-stitch, perfectly combining my love of needlework and Fitzwilliam Darcy (particularly as played by Colin Firth). Click on the image to order your own (from Etsy, of course).

Harpy Seminar, Victorian style!

So yesterday afternoon there was quite a lively discussion amongst some of the Harpies about our favorite men from ye olde literature, inspired by an article in the Telegraph that Pilgrim Soul sent us.  Entitled “Romantic Heroes: Here’s to You, Mr. Rochester,” and written by popular novelist Penny Vincenzi, the article trumpets the news that a recent poll by romance publisher Mills & Boon–known as Harlequin in the US and Canada–crowned Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester the sexiest romantic character in literature, beating out Mr. Darcy, Rhett Butler and Heathcliff. Pilgrim Soul, PhDork and I had some strong opinions about this. Join us as our bosoms heave, both with indignation, and with barely suppressed passion for our Regency/Victorian literary loves.

PilgrimSoul: How creepy is it that everybody find Mr. Rochester so romantic?  HE LOCKED HIS WIFE IN AN ATTIC.

BeckySharper: I always thought that Mr. Rochester was creepy too!  And Heathcliff was just evil and cruel. The only reason the book didn’t totally fall apart was that Cathy was pretty dreadful herself and you kind of got the sense they deserved each other. But what is it with these women who think mean, brutal, domineering men are sexy?

PhDork: Hopefully all the plain girls out there will find morally-reformed blind men to marry them.  After their crazy first wives burn to death, of course.  No bigamy; that would be offensive.

Uh-oh, if you open the door to Mr. Rochester being less-than-perfect, than someone (me) is going to come in and point out how Mr. Darcy is a prat, too.

BeckySharper: LEAVE MR DARCY ALOOOOONE!  That was the only one at the top of the list who made sense to me. (Especially as portrayed in a wet shirt by Colin Firth. You’re welcome.)

Darcy may have been a bit of a prat, but at least he never locked a mentally ill woman in an attic. Or had an illegitimate child by a French lady who then died under mysterious circumstances (come on, we all know little Adele was not just Rochester’s “ward”).

PilgrimSoul: Personally I like to stick with Colonel Brandon.  Particularly as played by my future husband Alan Rickman.

BeckySharper: I love Colonel Brandon. And Alan Rickman was PERFECT.  Although have you read Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, where Colonel Brandon has tentacles coming out of his face? (Check out the awesome promo video of S & S & SM.)

PilgrimSoul: Alan Rickman would never have anything so vulgar coming out of his face.

PhDork: Ooh, PSoul likes damaged goods!  And old dudes!

PilgrimSoul: Damaged goods?  Maybe. But at least he doesn’t try to strongarm Marianne into marrying him.

BeckySharper: And he has a lovely home and likes to save women in distress, just like Mr. Darcy. So Dorky, since your snarking on our literary dreamboats, who’s yours?

PhDork: If If we’re talking S & S:  Edward Ferrars.

But in general, I wouldn’t look to Victorian/Regency lit for a dude.  Although John Harmon from Our Mutual Friend is an admirable fellow.

BeckySharper: Yes, John Harmon is acceptable, if you’re looking for a nice guy with a moral compass instead of a rogue.

PhDork: I’ve always found men with moral compasses appealing.  None of that “bad boy” stuff for me.  Give me your nerds, your dorks, your humble menz yearning to get laid.

BeckySharper: Well, you’ll find ‘em in Dickens. Those Dickens heros are so EARNEST.  Except for Pip. I loved Great Expectations, but I thought Pip was douchebag.

PilgrimSoul: Also Daniel Deronda. “Do I spy a drowned Jewess!”

BeckySharper: That was such a lousy book. I never liked any of George Eliot’s novels much (at least, the ones I read).  I think that makes me a bad feminist. But the men in her books were pretty awful. My lit professor once said of Stephen Guest–the dudely dude in Mill on the Floss–that he might as well have been walking around wearing a nametag reading ‘Stephen Guest, Studmuffin” because he was such a crude rendering of an alpha male.

That said, I know legions of lady readers who love Will Ladislaw from Middlemarch.

PilgrimSoul: I love Middlemarch!  Can’t get it up for any of her other novels.

PhDork: Forgive me sisters, for I have sinned:  I’ve never read Middlemarch.

BeckySharper: ::gasps::   ::clutches pearls::

It was the best of the bunch, for sure.  Although I think I read it after I’d just plowed through the Complete Misogynist Works of Thomas Hardy, so after wife-selling (Mayor of Casterbridge) and slut-shaming of rape victims (Tess of the D’Urbervilles) Middlemarch seemed like a huge relief. And Will Ladislaw definitely has that earnest, penniless young scholar vibe that PhDork would love.

So what do you think, gentle readers?  Mr. Rochester–hot or not? How about Heathcliff? Willoughby? Mr. Darcy? Which literary hearthrob loosens your corset?

My disengagement ring. Worth every penny.

Growing up, I used to love playing in MamaSharper’s jewelry box. Jewelry was more than just beautiful, it was grown-up, and sophisticated–the things I aspired to be.

My mother always had gorgeous jewelry, thanks to my stepdad. A man of outstanding taste and style–like Tim Gunn, only straight and a hulking ex-football player–Dad has a crow-like affinity for sparkly stuff. When they first got married, he gave Mom his mother’s ring, which was nice, but relatively modest. They were both recently divorced and had young children–me and my stepsister–and didn’t have money for anything fancy.  But later, when Dad’s business took off and Mom got a job with a higher salary, that wedding ring was sent off to the jeweler to be tricked out with a new, larger, heart-shaped stone and a series of small rubies around the band. Every birthday, Christmas and anniversary, my mother gets a new piece of jewelry–mostly gems and colored stones, exquisitely tasteful and well-designed. The ladies at the Neiman-Marcus jewelry counter at Tyson’s Corner and at Turgeon Raine in Seattle are on a first-name basis with my stepdad. My parents aren’t flashy in any way–they drive Volvos and live in a small three-bedroom house–but MamaSharper has some lovely jewelry.

That love of jewelry has stuck with me. I was practically swooning with delight when I went to the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show this year with BFF Elizabeth. Room after room and building after building full of fancy stones! Sparkly! Polished! Glowing! Calling my name! I came away with an amazing, deep-blue strand of Afghan lapis and several cut and polished loose stones that I’m having made into jewelry.

It’s not just about the sparkle, though. Jewelry also taps into my love of stories and history. On our last trip to London together, MamaSharper and I trolled Bond Street for my favorite kind of jewelry: antiques. MamaSharper has a bracelet from an English antiquarian jeweler that I absolutely covet: a suffragette bracelet made of pearls, amythyst and peridots. Suffragette jewelry of purple, white and green stones were worn by British society ladies of the early 20th century as a sign of support for the women’s suffrage movement.

I was determined to find a suffragette piece for myself, but none of the estate jewelers had any. I found something better, though–a necklace whose pendant is a tiny gold book, about the side of a postage stamp, with tiny gold pages. The front cover of the book has a tiny Star of David with an even tinier ruby in the center. The back “cover” of the book is inscribed with the German words: “Unforgettable Days.”  It looked as though the pages were meant to be inscribed with dates–weddings, children’s birthdays, etc–but they were all blank. The antiques dealer didn’t know much about the gold book, only that it was made in the early part of the 20th century, and had been made for a German Jewish girl, probably as a birthday present. I bought it immediately. I have no idea who its owner was, or what became of her–I hope she died in London of old age–but I couldn’t resist the connection to that woman, whoever she may have been.

Now, despite my own crow-like affinity for shiny goodies, I’m not into plain old bling. I could care less about the great big white diamonds set in platinum whose only purpose is to telegraph “Hey, I’m loaded. Check me out!” Whether you’re P. Diddy and his Jacob the Jeweler ice or a Manhattan bride flashing her emerald-cut Tiffany solitaire, that shit is just tacky. Engagement rings especially have become a kind of arms race for women. I have seen too many perfectly intelligent, sane professional women turn into Gollum over a diamond engagement ring, even sending their fiances back to the store to buy bigger stones.

This is the ugly side of jewelry–the materialistic obsession with jewels as a status symbol or proof of love. It always struck me as being a massive priority FAIL. When I was talking marriage with my Older Lover, I made it perfectly clear that while I loved jewelry, I didn’t expect–or want–him to drop a bunch of cash on an engagement ring. He had a big mortgage, child support and credit card debt to take care of, and I wanted him to spend his money on those things–y’know, the things that actually matter–instead of on THE PRECIOUSSSSS.  If he’d had a bottomless bank account, sure, I would have taken a ring. But he didn’t, so I didn’t.

When that relationship ended, still smarting and grieving over the breakup, I bought myself some diamonds. I wear them on my middle finger–a big fuck-you to all the people who told me I should have settled just for the sake of being married. The ring was not cheap, but I was not poor, and I figured that by not taking on a debt-ridden husband and a stepchild, I had ultimately saved at least twenty times the cost of the ring. I call it my Disengagement Ring, and it’s my favorite piece of jewelry–the story behind it is my own.

Via aidengirard @ Flickr.

Ladies, I’ve just returned from one of the dudeliest places on earth: the 113th annual Cheyenne Frontier Days, the world-famous week-long rodeo and festival of Western culture known as “The Daddy of ‘Em All.” It’s absolute cowboy heaven–and I mean genuine, Wrangler-wearing, square-jawed, professional cowboys with big belt buckles. It’s some serious manly man stuff, but while the testosterone is so thick you could cut it with a bullwhip, rodeo culture has never raised my hackles at all–quite the opposite.

For starters, Cheyenne, Wyoming should be a feminist place of pilgrimage. It was the place where American women were first given the vote, in 1869, more than 50 years before the 19th Amendment, and where, in 1924, America’s first female governor, Nellie Tayloe Ross, was sworn in. The state’s motto–printed on their flag–is “Equal Rights.” That pioneer culture was way ahead of the curve when it came to recognizing women’s contributions and giving them equal political standing (Wyoming was also the first state to have female jurors and court baliffs–in 1870).

And at every rodeo I’ve attended, cowgirls are celebrated right along with cowboys. While women don’t ride bulls, they are often outriders and steer wranglers, which requires great skill and true grit (try spending hours on a horse in the hot sun, chasing down and roping runaway steer and broncos). MamaSharper and I have often remarked on how un-misogynist the PBR and professional cowboys are, especially when compared to, say, the misogynist cesspit that is the NFL or NBA. It’s counterintuitive given how testosteronally charged cowboying is. But the women are getting it done alongside the men, and no one messes with the cowgirls.

But yes, the cowboys are delicious, even if it’s sexist and objectifying of me to say so. They just look so good in those Wranglers and hats, and they are unbelievably strong and athletic. If you’ve never been to a serious rodeo, believe me when I say that you will probably never see more spectacular live displays of athleticism unless you get tickets to the Olympics. Like this::

Cowboy on bucking bronc.

Or this:

Cowboy coming off the bull at the end of his 8 seconds, with the bullfighters coming in to distract the bull so the cowboy can make a getaway.

Horse-lovers like me also love being in a venue with over 1,000 beautiful saddle-horses. Out on the rodeo grounds, it’s horses as far as the eye can see. I also love how, since they’re in such great numbers, they revert to instinctive horsey behavior, including self-herding. Here’s a bunch that were just standing in a close nose-to-nose huddle for no other reason than that’s what herd animals like to do.

Gratuitous horse booty shot!

The bulls, while ferocious for their eight seconds in the ring, spend the rest of the time eating and hanging out in the mud with other bulls like this:

O hai.

Anyway, I am back in New York now, where the only livestock wrangling I’ll be doing is walking my neighbor’s pit bull while she’s out of town. MamaSharper and I had a blast–again–and are already booking tickets for next year’s Frontier Days. Feel free to saddle up and join us for a couple days of true grit, hot cowboys and Western-style feminism.

I look JUST like this. Via gcacho @ Flickr.

“My mother was a good recreational cook, but what she basically believed about cooking was that if you worked hard and prospered, someone else would do it for you.”

–Nora Ephron

In the bad old days, cooking was hot, dirty, tedious and exhausting, which is precisely why the Patriarchy assigned it to us (see also: cleaning and child-care). Cooking was ladybusiness and a lady was only as good as the meals she cranked out. As for the rare women who couldn’t cook, well, they were suspect–definitely lazy and maybe even bluestockings!

This mentality hasn’t shifted much, even in these more enlightened times. When Hillary Clinton infamously disaparaged the hallowed domestic arts of baking and hostessing with her comment, “I could have stayed home and baked cookies and had teas but what I decided to do was fulfill my profession,” the media–and the right-wing–lost their ever-loving minds. The fuss wasn’t just because HRC was standing up for her career but because she was simultaneously rejecting her womanly duty to slave over some cookie sheets. We can safely presume that she could have mitigated the uproar by saying: “Oh, I’m committed to my career, but I still find time to cook for my family.” The problem was that she clearly didn’t seem to regret not baking those cookies. Like Nora Ephron’s mom, HRC was making the point that cooking is not something all women feel compelled to do. Fortunately, women’s lib now gives a lot of us the economic power to outsource it, and for many high-earning women of my acquaintance, there’s a certain pride that comes with announcing: “I had it catered” and “I never cook.”

To my mind, it’s the perfect Catch-22 for women these days: If you aren’t cooking, you’re neglecting your family. Bad mother! If you like cooking, you’re an unliberated throwback. Bad feminist!

So where does that leave those of us who do double duty as feminists and cooks? In yesterday’s comments thread about PhDork’s post about wifely doormattery, frequent commenter baraqiel noted: “stuff like this makes me look at cooking and get the anti-feminist nasties from it, which, hey: get your patriarchy off my hobbies.”

Amen, sister. I’m a feminazi bonerkiller with a successful career who kicks ass in the kitchen. My love of cooking is equal parts nature and nurture: I love to eat, and I’m half Southern Methodist and half New York Jewish, both cultures which absolutely revere home cooking. I could never be Carrie Bradshaw, storing my magazines in my unused oven.

As for gender equity in the kitchen, I confess that I judge men and women equally when they say they can’t cook. Granted, most of the people I know who can’t cook are men, but I have one or two female friends who never learned either. This strikes me as somewhat preposterous. Do you eat? Yes? Then why can’t you make your own meals? I’m not saying you need to whip up souffles and beef Wellington for 10, but basic cooking is something everyone should know.

The joys of cooking are many: it’s a meditative act, a creative act, a sensual act and joyful act (unless your sauce breaks or you start a grease-fire or leave something in the oven too long, in which case, it’s an exercise in frustration and swearing). It’s not, however, a gender-specific act, or at least, it shouldn’t be. Whether I’m baking a cake or making my mom’s two-day chicken soup or whisking an alfredo sauce, it’s all about me and my dinner. The Patriarchy is not invited.

Via poodlephile_lucy @ Flickr.

When I was a tween, I was seriously into horses. Maybe it was all the fairytales with princesses and their horses. Or Black Beauty or Misty of Chincoteague. Maybe I read too many historical novels where queens and ladies galloped about on their faithful steeds.  I didn’t have much use for dolls and I preferred books to the usual girly stuff, like ballet or cheerleading. But I wanted to be poised and graceful and ladylike on a horse. Dammit, I wanted a pony.  

Since we lived in the suburbs, a pony was not an option (although believe me, I made the case more than once. We did have a big backyard.). But my parents were willing to indulge my pleas for horseback riding lessons. “Some girls are just horse girls,” my stepdad observed.  And he would know–his sister, Aunt Trish, was a grown-up horse girl.  She had a farm in Virginia’s hunt country, where she raised and trained horses, and so, when I was old enough, I was kitted out with a helmet, boots, and riding pants and sent to Aunt Trish’s farm.

Tall, blonde and ladylike, Aunt Trish was also a formidable horsewoman. And like most horsewomen, she was a serious athlete. I learned pretty quickly that while horseback riding looks graceful and feminine and pretty, it’s damn hard work. After my first full day of riding, Aunt Trish presented me with a box of Epsom salts and recommended a long soak in the tub before bed. I ignored her and stayed up late reading a book instead. I only made that mistake once. The next morning, my legs and back were so sore I was convinced a whole mafia crew had worked me over with a lead pipe while I slept.

But I was undeterred. I was determined to have that graceful upright posture, to canter through the fields with the wind in my hair like the heroines of my favorite novels.  So I kept at it, and learned to appreciate horseback riding as a sport and horses for being, well, horses. I have always loved animals, and while horses are a lot bigger than me, I never feared them they way some people do. For one thing, they are way dumber than me. Beautiful? Yes. Graceful. Absolutely. Smart? Not so much. Horses are prey animals and prey animals evolved with one thing in mind: how not to be eaten. Besides that, there’s not much rattling around in those big heads of theirs. So relating to them is fairly simple: be nice, speak in a soothing low voice, don’t make any sudden movements, and be willing to forgive a certain amount of fussiness while they get used to you. I’ve found this is generally good advice for relating to all animals, including homo sapiens.

Horseback riding also proved to be a great sport for female bonding. I went to college in a fairly rural area of Virginia, and horseback riding was offered as gym elective. Twice a week I’d head to a farm about 15 minutes from campus, saddle up, ride for an hour or so, then comb, brush and pick hooves in a barn full of chatting, gossiping girls. For stress relief, it was unbeatable. By the end of the first semester together, we all wore matching shirts with our IHSA division number and the slogan, “Put Some Excitement Between Your Legs–Ride a Horse!” And by the end of the second semester my legs, back and abs were so ripped that my roommate–a varsity athlete herself–was impressed. Maybe all those women throughout history who embraced the ideal of graceful femininity on horseback were–conciously or subconciously–more interested in the physical strength and independence.  
When I bought my apartment in Brooklyn, I was delighted to move only a few blocks away from New York’s best stable.  I still ride in Prospect  Park, cantering past yuppies with their strollers and dodging dogs in the bridle path (seriously, people, keep your fucking dogs leashed unless you want them to get squashed by a lumbering 1,000 lb. creature with sharp hooves). I don’t fit the princess mold in my helmet and leather gloves, but I gave that up a long time ago. I don’t care if I look ladylike–although I think I do–because galloping at full speed makes me feel badass, which is even better.

Luxury steam spa...pure heaven. Via Corvallis Oregon @ Flickr.

I know, I know, it makes me sound like a granny from the old country, but I must confess, I really do love a good shvitz.

Let me be clear: I don’t love plain old flop sweat, the kind you get from 20 minutes on the treadmill or 2 minutes on a New York subway platform in July. I’m talking about what my Ashkenazi forbears called a shvitz—a relaxing interlude of lolling sweatily in a very hot room, usually naked, often surrounded by strangers.

Now, steam baths have been around since the dawn of civilization. Whether it’s the saunas of Finland, the hamams of the Middle East, the thermae of the Roman Empire, the sweat lodges of Native American tribes or my personal favorite, the Russian & Turkish Baths in New York’s East Village, people have been united for millennia in their shared desire to sit and sweat. And while most of my friends think gathering naked with strangers in a 100 degree plus room is icky, for me, this ancient pastime has all kinds of modern pleasures.

For starters, it’s good for you. Thousands of years ago, the Greek physician Hippocrates wrote glowingly—no pun intended—of how steam baths improved respiratory and immune function, relieved arthritis and aching muscles and generally contributed to a sense of health and well-being. For me, the most noticeable benefit is to my skin; regular visits to the steam room keep it dewy and acne-free in winter, despite the constant attacks of icy winds and drying radiator heat. Many doctors recommend regular shvitzing—either in a steam bath or sauna—as a way to detoxify, especially to rid the body of heavy metals (Jeremy Piven, take note!). The medical jury is still out on the specifics, but most of the research indicates that if you’re in good health, heat/steam therapy has many benefits. Also, if you lather up your hair with conditioner before you head into the steam room—instant hot oil treatment!

There’s also something wonderfully soothing about a steam room. I prefer steam to saunas. The dry air of the sauna parches my mouth and nose but the swirling, moist heat of the steam is refreshing and induces an almost trance-like state. You feel almost embryonic in a nice, dim steam room, lulled into a pleasant state of sensory deprivation where the only sound is the swish of your pulse in your eardrums and the drip, drip of water from the ceiling. For me, it’s the same kind of battery recharge my friends get from yoga or meditation.

Now, I’ve sung the benefits of shvitzing to many friends and gotten plenty of negative reactions. My female friends are often turned off by all the public nudity and the notion of sweating on purpose—eww! My straight male friends all look at me like I’m trying to drag them to an all-day Crisco-and-poppers festival at Pride Week. Personally, I’ve never seen anything even remotely sexual in all the years I’ve spent in women’s steam rooms, but I’ve had plenty of male friends, both gay and straight, tell horrified—or, in some cases, delighted—stories of sex, masturbation and indecent exposure at the men’s steam room of their local spa or health club. Based on such compelling eyewitness testimony, I will concede that there are pleasures (or perils) associated with shvitzing that I haven’t explored yet–and probably won’t.

Still, as old-school and seemingly silly as it is to sit in a hot room and sweat, I can guarantee that in practice, it’s sensual, relaxing, and you will feel better upon leaving the steam than you did upon entering. The ancients may have been wrong about some things, but they knew exactly what they were doing when they built those bathhouses.