At least once per day I receive a note or text that says,

“Your life is SO Glamorous!”

I just landed in Paris. It is the most glamorous city.

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I signed a new modeling contract – I can leave at any time and they can kick me to the curb if I decide to eat all the hazelnut chocolate filled croissants in Paris. And I might.

(insert desperate plea for you to hire me for your next marketing or ad campaign here. I’m not getting any younger…)

So today we’re going to discuss my Oh So Glamorous Life.

My flight to France was 7 hours so the first thing I did was take a hefty dose of melatonin so I could sleep. (It might have been NyQuil but whatever.) Then I saw they had some really good movies that I haven’t seen and 6.5 hours later I was exhausted and drugged  but my adrenaline was pumping faster than a turbine because I had just watched every single new release in the “action/adventure” section. My legs were stiff from inactivity, I didn’t have a drop of makeup/moisturizer/illuminating glow on my face, my hair was in a bun (or was before the seat compressed it into a rat’s nest) and my deodorant expired an hour ago.

Truth is, there are days and times when my life IS quite amazing. I’m in Europe for crap sake. That’s pretty glamorous. I get fawned over for hours with hair and makeup. I get to wear beautiful clothes and carry Gucci and Prada accessories that I DIDN’T HAVE TO PAY FOR. I get to meet incredibly talented photographers from all over the world that inspire me with their art and talent. I have worked with some magnificently beautiful human beings. I’ve met up-and-coming designers who design clothes that, one day,  you might wear. I have a portfolio of lovely photos that I’ll have forever. (You can follow my musings on Instagram @KathyCamp1.)

HOWEVER, IN BETWEEN, my life can SUCK ASS. Let me break it down for you.

1. I still have to interview for jobs. Yes, everyone knows what I look like. But you still have to go on “calls” and see if the designer or rep likes the way you look for their clothes or their campaign. It’s a competition against incredibly beautiful people. I face rejection daily. Yes, daily.

2. I am 5’10”. I have to maintain a size 0-2 with measurements of 34-24-34. At 40 years old, that’s defying most laws of gravity.  I work out a LOT. (This is an exercise and edification blog after all.) I spend a solid hour every morning thinking about what I need to do – cardio, lifting, yoga, Pilates or a combo of them – and then where in my day it’s going to fit in. Currently I’m in a dress with a sports bra on because I know the second I get home from a meeting, I need to do a 40 minute HIIT workout (Fitness Blender on YouTube is my go-to) and then get a quick jog in before the rain comes. Because oh yeah I’m in Europe and today it’s sunny but tomorrow it may snow because God is punishing me for something I did in the 8th grade.

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3. When I’m not working out or thinking about working out or planning to work out or stressing about working out, I’m thinking about eating. I think about food 400x a day. I practice intermittent fasting which is not for the weak. I don’t eat between 8pm and 2pm the following day. Why? Because I’m a masochist and I like pain. No, because there are health benefits to fasting and it means I have a smaller window to eat which naturally limits my calories. I follow the KETO diet. But I don’t really like meat, I’m super sensitive to dairy and I have to watch my nut/seed caloric load so I’m kind of Vegan-esque Keto which is really hard and not really a thing. I eat a lot of cauliflower, spinach, eggs, avocado, coconut oil, olives, nuts and seeds. (Last week I was so stressed out I ate half a jar of sunflower seed butter with a spoon.) Winning.

So when I’m not thinking about exercising, I’m thinking about food. I don’t have it all figured out. And what works for me may not work for you – you have to find what balances out your particular issues and hormones. And we all have issues.

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I use an app called Cronometer where I track every single thing I eat and drink. You will see supermodels in magazines tell you they eat whatever they want. They preach moderation. It’s just not true. Or it is and by “moderation” they mean they weighed their one sugar-free breath mint for the day.

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Last week I flew to New York. Since you now know I obsess about food, I can’t possibly eat airplane food.

HOW WOULD I TRACK MY MACROS? HOW DO I ENTER “MYSTERY MEAT” IN MY APP? IS THAT SAUCE? IS IT OIL? COCONUT? GRASS FED GHEE? RAPESEED OIL FROM RAPE FIELDS OF EUROPE? WHATS A RAPE FIELD AND WHY CAN’T THEY RENAME THAT BY NOW?

I had two planes and a total 18 hour trip in front of me so the evening before I prepared my food for the day. Since I was going across multiple time zones, I didn’t worry about an eating window and just portioned out enough to eat every few hours. I knew I’d sleep a little but mostly I’d be watching an endless loop of movies since I’m too cheap to have cable. And as you know, screen time leads to snack time so I needed to be prepared.

I measured and prepackaged in clear zip lock baggies 8 individual servings of: cucumber and celery sliced and portioned, pumpkin seeds, pecans and turkey pepperoni. (I know it’s processed but dude – airplane.)

Upon entering the mighty United States Of America, my country of birth, the Stars and Stripes that raised me under the banner of freedom, I passed through security…

and was immediately detained by a United States Department of Agriculture Customs Officer. 

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“Brunhilda”, as we will lovingly refer to her, was not a chipper woman. Standing roughly 5 feet tall in both directions, she had seen better days. Her hair was in a bun so tight her eyelids struggled to blink. She smelled of day old cigarettes and pork rinds. For the record, I love pork rinds. This was more “ode to swine anus” and she lacked a basic understanding of personal boundaries.

My passport was confiscated and put into a clear pouch with a green border.  This is apparently important because the color of your pouch will dictate what level of threat you are or how far up the body cavity they will search. I was assigned multiple tax-paid handlers. One was for my luggage that was pulled off my connecting plane for inspection and another to stay beside me at all times as apparently I looked like some sort of soccer mom flight risk in my yoga pants and knock off pashmina.

I was taken to a secured room where my belongings and my body were carefully inspected as if I might be hiding Russian spy codes between my fallopian tubes. While touching places that haven’t been touched since the doctor pulled me from the womb, “Brunhilda” informed me that I was a new breed of terrorist – the kind that brings foreign agriculture into our beloved homeland. The kind that can spread disease and introduce pests and germs to the New World.

Apparently, I hadn’t finished off the last bag of pre measured and sliced cucumbers. And now said cucumbers and I were the suspects of potential mass agricultural and human genocide.

In the holding cell next to me (ok it was a room but stay with me) was a tiny, elderly hispanic woman who had a half eaten apple from Spain. She was crying and shaking in fear. I gave her a raised hand in compassionate understanding.

Solidarity, Eve. Solidarity.

Two hours and a missed connection to New York, my half eaten zip lock bag of sliced cucumbers were ceremoniously dropped into a garbage can of other food soccer moms and yogis have tried to sneak into the country in the relentless pursuit of health.

Eventually, I made it to New York.

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I haven’t eaten a cucumber since.

Body searches aside, my day-to-day life is not all that glamorous. It’s full of stress and emails and meetings and kettle bells and rejection and fake eye lashes.

How we carry ourselves through the stress, the bouts of self-doubt, fear, anxiety, failure, success, and half-glued eyelashes is what people see.

I had someone call me narcissistic recently. And not in love. (Is that ever said in love?) Here’s the truth – we all need a streak of self love. I get told on a daily basis that I’m too fat, my feet are too big, I’m too old, that I need botox or a thread lift, definitely a breast lift, or this and that. Every Single Day. It can be exhausting but the way I look doesn’t define me. And it shouldn’t define you. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made. No matter where you are in your personal journey – and we’re all on a journey – you have to first know and believe that you were made perfect for a purpose. Perfect just as you are right now – not when you were in college or where you want to be next year – right now in this moment as you read these words you are beautifully made in the image of God. May that be a freedom for you, as it is for me. 

Glamour is appearance, not lifestyle. And inner joy – the kind that radiates from your soul – is more beautiful than any physical thing could ever be.

Hold your head up high. Pull your shoulders back. Let your light shine.

Live your most glamorous life.

Cucumbers optional.

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and Run to Win.

 

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Ah, Paris! The city of love and lust, home of fashion, art and culture. I went to the famous French city to run La Parisienne – a 40,000 woman only road race under the Eiffel Tower and around the ancient city.

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I took the train from Germany – a very fast, very cool, very comfortable multi-hour train ride through the countryside. I read French Vogue to get me in the mood for my big city adventure. I packed leather pants, cropped jackets and my favorite black heels. The Parisian ladies did not disappoint. I rarely saw locals in pants or shorts. They were decked out in summer dresses, sandals, kitten heels and wide-brimmed hats. On the subway in every direction were lovely ladies who looked like they walked right out off the runway with Chanel bags and red soled heels. The cafe lined streets had well positioned chairs to take in the sights and smells of the French women walking by – their floral perfumes lingering just for a minute behind their freshly combed hair. In the morning I had an espresso (in the worlds tiniest cup) among handsome men with pressed shirts and women with cigarettes dangling from their thin, manicured hands.

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And then there was me. Those poor leather pants never saw the light of day. It was hot and walking a large city with my 4-year-old side kick meant two things: shorts with pockets stuffed with crayons and very comfortable shoes. While the locals pulled out jewel encrusted mirrors from their Chloé handbags, I pulled out day-old juice boxes and antibacterial wipes out of my TJ Maxx travelers pouch. Sexy.

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Sunday morning was the big event – the road race. Everyone runs for a different reason. Some for time, for cancer, for spite, for revenge, for health, for camaraderie. I run for Parkinson’s and for my dad so he knows (right around mile 4) that he’s not suffering alone – I’m pretty miserable too.

The race was advertised as beginning at 945am. That might have been true, had you gone through security at 5am. I woke up at 7, got ready, walked the 2.5 miles to the race site and proceeded to spend 30 minutes in the security line only to be escorted to the chute – a half mile long gated area where we were corralled like cows to the slaughter. They released a few hundred women across the starting line every 7 minutes which meant they’d get to my group around Christmas. As luck would have it, my heat went at about 12:15pm. I had been walking, jogging or standing for over four hours and the race hadn’t even begun yet.

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Around 11am, with my phone about to die and the 1pm apartment check-out looming in front of me, I started to panic. I legitimately tried to bail and leave the corral but I could not. There was no exit, no gate I could sneak through and no personnel to recruit for my great escape. I had no way out. I thought of two things in that moment. First, I thought of yelling “BOMB!” and the ensuing stampede but I had blown my budget the day before and didn’t have enough left to post bail. My next thought was of was my father. I know there are times in his battle with Parkinson’s where he wants to escape his body but there’s no place to go. There are plenty of people who have illnesses, depression, jobs they don’t like, marriages they don’t like, with no escape. So I kept going. I ran for them.

The race itself was really fantastic – probably the greatest display of pageantry of any race to date – and I’ve run a lot of races. About every 500 meters there was entertainment of some kind. Several amazing percussion groups, singers, dancers, I’m pretty sure the entire cast of La Cage aux Folles and a drag queen or two. (or six.) My favorite was a small orchestra dressed as chickens playing the theme song to The Muppet Show. It was fantastic.

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Around mile three, my left foot started to ache, my phone’s battery died and my tampon reached max capacity. (Did I make you wince? It gets worse.) I finish the race at around 1245. (I’m sure someone kept time but it was a giant party so no one seemed to care.) I made it back to the apartment 30 minutes late and my host (though I’d rather not call him something so inviting) had already cleaned the bathroom and would not allow me to shower. So here I am, having walked a collective five miles, ran five miles and was probably covered in more blood than an amateur boxing ring. And I had to ride on a train like this for the next five hours.

Paris has a motto – Fluctuat Nec Mergitur – Latin for

“She is tossed by the waves but does not sink.”

I thought about bailing on the run but I didn’t. I thought about bailing on this entire expensive, exhausting, navigationally insane endeavor to run Europe for EU Parkinson’s but I can’t quit. You can’t quit. We have to keep going – keep being intentional in our lives and relationships – keep going no matter the obstacles – keeping encouraging each other to Run to Win.

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