Brynn Barineau

Tag: Beauty & Fitness in Brazil

  • The Consequences of Going Gray

    The Consequences of Going Gray

    woman-morning-bathrobe-bathroomIt’s been more than difficult finding time to write this post. My husband is away on a networking trip while Kiddo’s in the middle of summer vacation. That puts me on twenty-four hours a day parent duty. I’d probably be a little more frustrated if I didn’t know these networking trips of his were going to start tapering off.

    You see my husband’s getting older, and in the spirit of honesty, it’s obvious. He’s getting more wrinkles and creases, but it’s the gray hair that’s really noticeable. My husband has black hair which has gone from lightly dusted to preserved cod salty in the last few years. Of course getting older isn’t a problem per se. He just could look a lot younger if he wanted to.

    With all that gray hair, he’s not going to be tapped for any promotion. The quality of his work is going to become less obvious as people start focusing on his whiter hair. I’m sure the university he teaches for is going to want someone a little…fresher to represent them at conferences. I’m afraid it’s going to affect his student evaluations. Those undergrads are going to look at him and think his complete apathy about his appearance clearly indicates a certain indifference toward everything including class planning.

    I’m also worried it’s going to affect his social life. He hasn’t said anything, but I think some of his friends have stopped calling. I feel terrible for him, but I can’t blame them. By not coloring his hair, he’s basically throwing his mortality in the face of everyone around him. Who wants to sit next to Mr. Death-is-Inevitable at the dinner party? That’s kind of a bummer.

    Of course, it’s going to be harder to make new friends. Everyone says they don’t judge people by appearances, but let’s be honest. We all check a person’s roots before striking up a conversation.

    I’ve made subtle comments about the gray hoping he’ll take some interest in his appearance and stop letting himself go. I realize I’m never going to talk him into botox or skin peels, but if he would just invest a little in himself, I think he’d really perk up and be more confident in all areas of his life. It feels like he doesn’t love himself anymore. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see the incredibly handsome man I see. That’s why I want him to dye his hair. I think he would feel more handsome if he would just get rid of the gray.

    Watching my husband deal with getting older has made me glad I’m a woman. I’ve been going gray since my early twenties. If had to hide my white hair, at the rate my hair grows…ugh, I’d have spent a small fortune on salon appointments. Fortunately, I’m not a man, and I don’t have to work at making everyone think I’m at least a decade younger than my actual age to be happy with my appearance.

    Actually, women don’t really talk about our age that much. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure I know exactly how old my best buddies are. We’re usually too busy talking about politics, whether or not to refinance our houses, the cost of health care. And sports. I swear my friends and I still don’t get through one round of drinks before someone references Lloyd’s hat trick in the World Cup final. Why would age even come up?

    I hope my husband knows that I’ll love him no matter how old he gets and what he looks like. I hope he knows how handsome he is. Gray hair and all.

    This of course is a piece of comedy. Although I have, in fact, been going gray since my early twenties. Unfortunately, I have spent a small fortune on trips to the salon. I had coloring my hair in the same category as bathing, an essential and basic part of my self-care routine. But in the last year, afternoons to myself for writing were in short supply. I didn’t want to give up a whole afternoon to painting my hair, so I let my hair grow and grow and eventually ended up with a couple inches of gray hair at my temples.

    IMG_1371
    No, that’s not a lighting effect. That’s four months of hair growth highlighting my temple.

    And life’s pretty much the same. It turns out coloring hair is a choice. One my salt-and-pepper headed husband chooses not to pursue without comment or consequence. I’m going to opt out too from now on. I’m not promising to never color my hair again. But for now, there are other things I’d rather do with my time and money. Will you still invite me over for dinner?

     

    Body Positive January 2016This post is part of Happy Mama Happy Baby‘s Body Positive January. Check out her site for more awesome posts from great writers, book reviews, and giveaways!

  • Dear Retailers, Stop Arranging by Color!!

    Dear Retailers, Stop Arranging by Color!!

    Colors of rainbow. Variety of casual clothes on wooden hangers, isolated on white.
    I’d like something yellow.  Tshirt, pants, socks, doesn’t matter. I just need yellow clothes.

    When was the last time you went shopping for clothes?  This past weekend?  Last month?  If you’re my brother, the answer is about 13 years ago when you could still be forced to accompany our mom.  He’s survived off of birthday and Christmas presents ever since.  Since those dates are December 21 and 25 respectively, he hasn’t owned a new pair of shorts in over a decade.

    For those who can remember your most recent spree, why did you go out in the first place?  Did you need new shorts for summer?  Had your kid outgrown all his socks?  Was it because you needed something orange?  Or blue? Was color in any way a factor in deciding to hit the mall?

    I’m curious because based on how the stores around me are laid out, color seems to be the primary characteristic people consider when shopping for clothes.  Items are not grouped by type of clothing or season; clothing, no matter what it is, is grouped according to color.  Miniskirt, pants, tank top, cocktail dress, if it’s any shade of purple it goes on the purple rack.

    This is the absolute worst way to arrange clothing!  I can’t even walk by a store that does this and not feel annoyed.  The person who thought this a good idea was obviously a guy with one semester of design classes and a mom who bought all of his clothes for him.

    Normally, I enter a store knowing that I need new shirts for work or a new dress for a dinner party.  Even on the rare occasion when I have no purpose other than spending birthday money, I know I will be avoiding miniskirts, culottes, and anything in animal print.  I would like to have these items together so that I don’t waste my time digging through them.  Never have I entered a store looking only for a color.

    Customer: Hi, I’m looking for some piece of green clothing.

    Sales Associate: You’re in luck! We have this lovely green blazer or tube top.

    Customer: No, those are a forest green.  I was hoping for something more lime green.

    Sale Associate: Well, we have these pajama bottoms.

    Customer: Perfect! I’ll take them.

    American college students prepping for a tailgate are the only people in the world who could legitimately have this conversation. This seems like a pretty small demographic to cater to, especially if your store is located in Brazil.

    There is a high end retail store on the corner of my block that arranges its merchandise this way.  At the moment, the front window has a long rack with every piece of purple clothing in the store.  While I think the clothes are pretty I will never shop there.  I would have to look through every single piece of clothing because that dressy, warm weather top I want could literally be ANYWHERE in the store.

    On principle, I refuse to shop at a store that forces me to look through all of its merchandise. This is, of course, a possible explanation for this mind-bogglingly inefficient organization.  I’ve also heard that it’s more visually appealing, an explanation I would accept from an art museum, but no one is walking into an international clothing retailer hoping for a visually arresting experience.

    This organizational style is neither unique to Brazil nor done by every store here, but the first time I ever tried to shop in a store laid out this way was in Rio.  A friend told me “Oh, this is how stores in Europe do it.”  Really? I find it hard to believe that the Germans or Swedes would ever adopt a practice this inefficient.  I’ve been in an Ikea.  They wouldn’t put a couch with a toilet seat on the grounds they’re both white.

    Thankfully, I have the Internet and can do most of my shopping without having to actually put on any of the clothes I’ve previously purchased.  But maybe if the store on the corner would arrange its clothing in a more helpful manner, I’d be willing to stop by and look at the lovely skirts those kids in Bangladesh made.

  • What Would Jesus Do?

    What Would Jesus Do?

    tumblr_static_makeup_1  Recently I finished unpacking after moving  into my apartment three and a half years ago.  Why the delay?  I simply didn’t care enough to discover where the dessert bowls were.  Caring requires a crucial combination of both time and energy that I haven’t had since my daughter came home from the hospital.

    After a month of being abandoned every night in the NICU, she arrived home with severe separation anxiety. I have not had a full night’s in over three years.  In the initial tortuous months, I was able to care about ten things:

    1. Feed baby.

    2. Clean baby.

    3. Make sure baby sleeps.

    4. Try to sleep while baby does.

    5. Feed myself.

    6. Provide age appropriate stimulation for the baby.

    7. Get dressed and take baby for a walk.

    8. Acknowledge my husband’s presence.

    9. Brush my teeth.

    10. Take a shower.

    For the first seven months, I consistently managed numbers 1 through 8.  Then I went back to work, showering moved up among my priorities, and preparing classes got added to the list.  Unpacking the DVDs, staying up on current events, making intelligent conversation were not things I cared about at all.  Caring takes energy and with so little sleep, my energy became a commodity more precious than clean water in Sao Paulo.  It was awful.  It was also the most liberating experience of my life.

    A nice outfit.  A good hair day.  Makeup.   Staples of my leaving-the-house routine.  I stopped caring about them all.  My routine was reduced to shower, brush teeth, brush hair, use deodorant (I remembered it most days), a comfortable shirt, jeans, and flat shoes.  I had enough energy to be clean, dressed, and present wherever I was required.  Nothing more.

    Then it dawned on me who’s routine I had adopted: my husband’s.

    With my new routine, I was living life like a man.  No makeup. No blowdryers or straighteners or curling irons.  No time spent over earrings, necklaces, and bracelets.  Only flat shoes that make stairs merely good exercise and not treacherous.  Holy crap!!!  This is how men go through the world.  No wonder they still run everything.  They’re wearing shoes that actually allow them to run.

    My husband goes out in the world with visible bags under eyes when he doesn’t sleep and he is still wildly successful with many people who want to work with him.  He doesn’t dye his hair and he still has friends.  He regularly puts his t-shirts on backwards and his family still loves him.

    Why the hell can’t I have it so easy?

    Turns out I can.  It was during this time when I regularly forgot to brush my teeth until after lunch, that I met and made my three best friends in Vitoria.  I had great relationships with my boss and colleagues and earned more responsibility at work.  My husband didn’t leave me when I kept my hair in a ponytail for three months straight.  My new friends didn’t stop calling when I went six months without putting in a pair of earrings.  My fellow teachers didn’t ignore me because I recycled the same five tops every week.

    I hope with all of my heart that I can teach these lessons to my daughter.  If she is honest, respectful, hard working, and fair, she will be successful personally and professionally.  That’s all she needs. High school might be a bitch, but her life will be a success.

    I believe the best way I can teach her these lessons is to apply them to myself.  Now when staring in the bathroom mirror, I ask myself a question I haven’t since trying to fit in at my public high school in Georgia.  What would Jesus do?

    As a man, would Jesus arrive five minutes late because he had to pluck his eyebrows?  Would Jesus wear the super cute shoes even though they’ll give him a blister on the walk to daycare?  Would Jesus wear eyeliner to a pool party?

    I wish I could say I’ve been hardcore enough to ask if Jesus would shave his pits but I haven’t and don’t plan to.  I admit I apply my new philosophy somewhat selectively.  I guess I’m not perfect.  But I don’t have the energy to care.

     

    flower

     

  • My Brazilian Gym Membership Part 3: Dress Code

    My Brazilian Gym Membership Part 3: Dress Code

    Most ads don't reflect reality...this one does. This is exactly how many women show up to my gym.
    Most ads don’t reflect reality…this one does. This is exactly how many women show up to my gym.

    I’ve been a regular at our new gym for one full week and I have to say I’m a bit of a standout.  People come up to me and ask where I’m from.  The trainers notice me and wave from across the gym.  I notice guys doing a double take.  Not to brag but people notice me.  Yup, I have the distinction of being the most conservatively dressed woman in the gym.

    With my t-shirts and running shorts, I might as well be using an American flag as a towel. It’s not just the fact that my abdomen is entirely covered that sets me apart.  I’m not wearing eyeliner or chandelier earrings and I haven’t left my waist-length hair streaming down my back. The Brazilian women at my gym are the sexiest collection of gym goers I’ve ever seen.  It’s like working out in a Flo Rida music video.

    There’s more leopard print here than on a jungle safari.  You can also see a good deal of paisley in all the colors of the rainbow.  Every outfit is perfectly matched and accessorized.  A flower-print sports bra paired with striped shorts?  Major faux-pas!

    Most of the women avoid the risks of mismatching by just going with the unitard.  Until recently, the unitard was, for me, merely a myth.  An extinct manner of dress that could be seen in historic records and frequently used in comedy sketches, like the toga.

    I’m pleased to report the unitard is alive and popular here in Brazil.  Surprisingly, there is quite a variety of cuts.  You have very low cut backs that dip so far down it’s possible to count every vertebra. Some of the unitards have cutouts on the sides and others have lace-up backs. They also have fronts cut so low there’s no way the woman can lift her arms over head without everything popping out.

    But lifting one’s arms is something most of the women never need to do since 95% of their workout focuses on legs.  Probably, to pull off their unitards.  And boy, do they pull them off.  In addition to being sex bombs, I’m pretty sure every woman there is also a triathlete.  These women sport six packs and perky, round butts without any jiggle.

    I’m not exaggerating when I say every woman in the gym is hardcore.  Yesterday, I scanned the gym specifically looking for women who could stand to lose a pound or two.  I saw maybe four.  Everyone else looked like an athlete and this includes the grandmothers in the room.  One woman, who could not have been younger than 60, followed me on the squat press and upped my weight by 40kgs. A very humbling moment.

    I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intimidated by the overt sexiness of the women.  The women are sleek, styled and fit. I’m in baggy shorts with my ponytail askew.  In the end though, I’ll take a ponytail over sweaty hair clinging to my back.  For me, comfort trumps fashion but I will take a cue from their commitment.  These women, of all ages, have made exercise an integral part of their lifestyle.  That, unlike unitards, is something worth imitating.

  • My Gym Membership A 3 part series Part II: Results

    My Gym Membership A 3 part series Part II: Results

    In a dazzling, welcome and somewhat out of character for Brazil, display of efficiency, the results of our introductory physical evaluation were sent by email the evening of the exam.  Having run on a treadmill wearing a mask most commonly seen on fighter pilots, I was expecting the results to be somewhat technical.  The myriad of pie charts and bar graphs didn’t disappoint.  My husband and I met with a trainer the next morning to have our results explained.

    I was all set to hear a trainer explain my good results and tell me I had passed my evaluation with flying colors.  I’m certainly no Olympian but I’ve been going to the gym pretty regularly and I watch what I eat.  I anticipated good results.

    A red-shirted trainer pulled up my results on a computer in weight room.  He took a second to skim the brightly colored charts.

    “Ok, your goal is to drop your body fat percentage by 4%.  You also need to increase your percentage of lean body mass.  Your right shoulder hangs slightly lower than your left which makes your pelvis tilt up on your left side. We’re going to have to work on that. You really need to improve your cardio.  The evaluator recommends at least 30 minutes on the treadmill a few times a week.  We’ll give you some ab exercises to reduce your waist circumference and of course we’ll concentrate heavily on your glutes and thighs.”

    I was waiting for him to tell me I had a brain tumor to go along with my fat, scoliosis, and weak heart. Then he scrolled farther down into the report, and my butt mugshots came into view.

    These were the most unflattering, complex-inducing, fat-roll highlighting pictures any human being has ever had taken. With the helpful grid on the wall behind me, I could measure just how far out my butt protruded from my body.  My profile shot provided a wonderful comparison between the horizontal extension of my butt and boobs, which, being under a sports bra, were non-existent according to the grid.

    Never once did he say to me “This is really good,” or “You’re doing great in this area.” I heard nothing except my current measurements and goals to work toward. By the end of the review I was convinced I had some serious work to do and guilty of assault every time I put on a bikini.

    What exactly were my results?  Currently, I weigh 62.8 kg (138.45 lbs) and my body fat percentage is 18.35.  My recommended goal is to reduce my body fat percentage to 14 and lose 2 kg (4.4lbs). To do this I will need to increase my lean body mass (muscle) by 1 kg.

    When the trainer gave me those numbers, I had no idea how they compared to other people.  I’m not a nutritionist or a doctor.  The trainer just told how much fat I should work on losing.  I was genuinely dismayed and believed I was in fact slightly over weight. Never once did he say “Wow, Brynn you’re actually in really great shape.”

    Which is exactly what I am!!  I am in awesome shape as  two hours worth of internet research told me.  Oh my god!  I realize I look like an ass for being upset about discovering I’m in good shape but the trainer really made me believe I NEEDED to loose the fat.  After visiting a dozen health sites, I learned that 14% body fat, my goal, is the lowest amount of fat an athletic woman my age should have. I need 12% body fat just for my organs to function well.

    Trainers, a word of advice.  If your client is already in good shape at the beginning of her training, lead with that!  Rather than say “Your goal is to lose 4% body fat,” say “4% body fat is all you can lose and still be healthy.”  It’s all in the presentation of the information.  As a trainer you have the power to make a person feel like she’s got a great body or like she’s that “before” picture in all the diet pill ads.

    Trust me, it’s not a hard sell to convince most women they need to lose weight.  It’s more difficult to convince most of us that we’re perfectly healthy and can afford to enjoy a side a french fries.

    Although, if the abundance of six packs and unitards is any indication, I bet most of the women at this gym haven’t eaten any kind of carb in the last decade.

    Up next…
    Part III: Dress Code

  • My Gym Membership A 3 part series Part I: Registration

    My Gym Membership A 3 part series Part I: Registration

    “Just tuck the heart rate monitor under your sports bra.  Just like that…good.  Now I’m going to put the mask on.  You let me know if it’s too tight.”  I nodded as she slipped the rubber mask over my nose and mouth and adjusted the straps behind my head.  “Ok, I’ll keep increasing the speed every minute.  You let me know when it gets uncomfortable.”

    When you’re running on a treadmill, with a rubber mask and hose on your face, things don’t become uncomfortable.  They start out that way and proceed to get worse.  Within, five minutes I was running flat out, sweating underneath my rubber muzzle and listening to the friendly blonde chat with my husband.  To top off the indignity, they were chatting about me while I’m inches away with a hose running from my face.

    I voluntarily submitted myself to all of it.  Of course, I hadn’t known what exactly was in store when my husband and I were told we had to do a physical evaluation before starting our new gym.  That’s right.  Every new member goes through a complete physical evaluation that is kept on file and used by the trainers to develop your personal fitness routine.  You can access it yourself from any of the gym’s computers if you’re feeling lazy and need to be reminded just what percentage of you is fat.

    The morning after filling out our paperwork and paying our fees, we returned to the gym and were led to a small, flourescent lit room where we met Marisa, trainer and our physical evaluator.  My husband graciously let me go first.  (He probably knew I was hoping to memorize whatever he did and slack off on understanding Marisa’s Portuguese.)

    The evaluation started with a series of questions.  “Do you drink two liters of water a day?”  (Does anybody?) “Do you smoke?”  “What medical problems run in your family?”  etc. Then, I took off my shoes and shirt, got weighed and measured.  Marisa didn’t just take my height.  She measured around my arms, legs, calves, waist, hips, ribs, everywhere.  Muscles flexed and relaxed.

    I knew this was serious data collection when the calipers came out.  Nothing brings you down like watching all of your body fat get pinched and recorded.  I also discovered that nothing gives you body issues like having your body evaluated.  I had thought I was in pretty good shape but I began to doubt it with every notation Marisa made.  The phrase ignorance is bliss flitted through my head more than once that morning.

    When Marisa finished cataloguing my fat, she asked me to stand against the wall, centered in front of a grid painted on it.  You know, similar to the one criminals stand in front of for mug shots.  Like the criminals I got my picture taken, front, left side, right side, and back, but unlike traditional mug shots my pictures cut my head completely out of the shot.  It was a mug shot of my butt.  Wanted: my ass for being disproportionately large.

    The exam finally ended with the aerobic test on the treadmill.  The mask measured my oxygen output in relation to my heart rate.  When I finished my husband went through the same process.  I feel pretty strongly we should now be cleared for astronaut training.

    Despite feeling slightly foolish while doing the tests, I am very glad I had the evaluation.  True, I became acutely aware of the places my body likes to store fat, I know that I’m a healthy weight with a healthy lifestyle.  Plus, isn’t knowing where the fat is stored the first step in getting rid of it?  That’s the whole point, obviously, of doing the physical evaluation.  The trainer knows exactly what areas you need to maintain and what you need to improve.  A personal fitness plan.

    Or at least that’s how I felt until I saw the mug shots.

    Up next…
    Part II: The Results

  • Winter Fashion in Rio de Janeiro

    Winter Fashion in Rio de Janeiro

    It’s 73 degrees and partly cloudy in Rio.  Lows are around 63 and the sea breeze is decidedly nippy.  You know what that means?  Shake out the sweaters and get the mold off that leather coat.  It’s winter in Rio!

    Of course, this only applies if you’re a Carioca.  If you are from pretty much anywhere else (ok, anywhere outside of the tropics) you grab a light jacket to wear over your tank top or opt for a long-sleeve t-shirt (the sleeves of which will be pushed up for the entire day until the sun sets).  But if you are Carioca, you’ll wear enough layers to be comfortable in deep space.

    The Carioca reaction to cool weather is charming.  The temperature drops below 80 and store mannequins are clothed in knee-length coats and turtleneck sweaters.  A drizzly rain plus a temperature of 60 degrees requires scarves, gloves, and boots.  While the Carioca may dislike having to wear closed toed shoes, it does give her a chance to wear that beautiful leather coat she bought in Buenos Aires.

    I’ll admit the last two days have been chilly.  I brought a jean jacket with me to class last night, but even with the jacket, I seemed to be dressed for an entirely different climate than the office staff.   One assistant was wearing what appeared to be a wool sweater over a long-sleeved, button-up shirt.  The office manager was dressed in a black suit, with jacket buttoned, black stockings and pumps.  While I don’t know how they avoided heat exhaustion, they both looked killer.

    And that’s what I miss about winter.  The clothes.  I do not like cold weather and unless you’re in a Lifetime Christmas special, snow is simply a cold, wet mess.  I do, however, miss the clothes.  Turtle necks, long coats tied at the waist, gloves, lined slacks, boots, sweater vests, corduroy pants, jewel toned anything.  The human race appears so much more competent in winter attire.

    Would you want the guy in the speedo and tennis shoes holding the nuclear codes?  No.  Nothing says “We’re doomed!” like a speedo accessorized with gold chains and athletic footwear.

    I do love the weather in Rio.  The lack of freezing temperatures is one of the city’s greatest assets.  But I miss the sophistication of winter clothes.  And a speedo with a parka on top does not count.

  • Combatting Hypertension and Puritans

    Rio has a way of bringing out the Puritan in me.  I see a fourteen year-old girl in a thong and I’m thrown into what can only be described as a tizzy.  I turned into a flustered grandmother when handed a government sponsored condom upon arrival at the Carnaval parade.  My husband says not to be too hard on myself.  He says I’m just a product of my culture.

    I’d like to protest but he’s right.  Americans are so uptight about sex.  Brazilians seems to be more open about sex and the fact that people actually have it.  This open attitude is certainly embraced by the ministry of health as demonstrated by their carnaval themed condoms and a report they issued last week.

    A new study shows the rate of hypertension in Brazil has risen from 21.5% in 2006 to 24.4% of the population in 2009.  Hypertension is a problem the US and Brazil share but Brazil seems to be taking a slightly different approach to combatting the problem.

    As part of fighting hypertension, the health minister recommends, “besides eating five portions of fruits a day, you could try to have sex five times a day.”

    Take a minute and try to imagine an American cabinet member or any government official saying those words to the press.  If your head hasn’t exploded from trying to visualize something so inconceivable, move on to imagining the voices of the FOX news pundits.  And finally, picture the headline a week later announcing the resignation of this official.

    Here in Brazil, the newspaper article acknowledged the minister was joking and further quoted him seriously recommending, “dance, sex, a change in diet” and physical activity as ways to combat high blood pressure.  Then the article went on to discuss the report in greater detail.

    A government official recommends sex five times a day and the reporter focuses on hypertension statistics?  What is wrong with these people?

    As far as I know, the health minister still has his job and no reports have come in of children irrevocably damaged from hearing their government acknowledge that there are physical benefits from a healthy sex life.

    But before anyone starts applying for residency visas, a word of caution.  While Brazilians have fewer hang ups about sex, the country is far from being a bastion of liberal values.  If any daughters result from these hypertension treatments, good luck convincing their fathers to let them play soccer.  Soccer turns girls into lesbians.

    Now, if you’ll excuse me.  I’ve had french fries a few times this week and my husband is out of town.  I’ll just have to go to the gym.