A $650 bathing suit that will never see a pool is adhered to my most intimate parts with a roll-on glue called Bikini Bite. My previously porcelain-white skin has been subjected to a spray tan and bronzer, rendering it an even shade of beige. Hair that's usually pulled back in a ponytail has been straightened, curled and teased into a 'do that brings thoughts of my high school prom to mind. A makeup artist has spent the better part of an hour painting my face, blushing my cheeks, shadowing my eyes and glossing my lips. I squeeze my feet into clear plastic 5-inch heels and rise gingerly from my chair. Catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I need a second take. I've become someone I'd previously only written about. I am a figure competitor.
At least I look like one, sort of, for the moment. Why am I here? To answer two questions that have been embedded in my brain since seeing my first figure competition a few years ago: Why do these women do this? and How hard can it really be? To find out, I spent a day living the life of Jenny Lynn, three-time Arnold Classic Figure International winner. I ate with her, trained with her and even participated in a posing seminar--all to find out what it takes to get out of the audience and onto the stage.
7:15 A.M.
JENNY'S HOUSE
As it turns out, it takes getting up before the crack of dawn for starters. Once I've accomplished that, a pajama-clad Jenny meets me at the front door of her hilltop northern California home. Her long blond hair is pulled away from her face, she's wearing no makeup and she's strikingly beautiful. We've never met, but she greets me with a warm hug. "Come on in," she says. "There's coffee in the kitchen, and I was just going to check my e-mail."
My mornings typically begin with a double espresso and a chocolate-chip scone, and I've come to rely on that morning sugar fix. But when I walk into the bright kitchen, no pastries are in sight. Jenny sweetens her coffee with a teaspoon of Splenda and I dutifully do the same. She responds to e-mails for a half-hour, casually chatting with me all the while. Then she changes into workout clothes and we head out for a morning jog.
8:00 A.M.
JENNY'S NEIGHBORHOOD
Jenny typically runs for 45 minutes (either outside or on a treadmill) nearly every day of the week. Three months before a contest, she increases her cardio to up to two hours daily. "If you were here then, we'd just be doing cardio," she laughs. Luckily, when I visit the Olympia is more than five months away, so we set out for what Jenny promises will be a moderately paced jog around her neighborhood. "I like to run slowly," she says. "Once, I went out for an hour, and when I came home Ron [her husband] said I must have gone pretty far, but I clocked it and I'd only gone about 4 miles!" I want to believe her, but I've spent the past half-hour lagging a foot behind her, so I've gotten a good look at her rear view. There's no way this woman normally runs at a 4 mph pace! I find out that precontest she also trains with a track coach who puts her through 1 1/2 hours of sprints and plyometrics twice a week. Thankfully, we won't have time for that today, but we do sprint the last few yards of our run. When I see her street in sight, I'm winded, hungry and ready for a nap.
9:00 A.M.
JENNY'S KITCHEN
Jenny eats 5-6 meals a day, beginning with breakfast after her morning cardio. While I love scones, muffins and bagels, I've been known to eat oatmeal for breakfast--especially while preparing for this visit. So I'm pleased when Jenny takes out a Costco-sized container of rolled oats and five minutes later puts a salad-bowl-sized portion of beige mush in front of me. "There's Splenda, cinnamon and nuts if you want them," she says, opening her pantry to reveal a sack of artificial sweetener front and center. I pour a tablespoon of cinnamon, 2 teaspoons of Splenda and three handfuls of almonds into the bowl, taste the concoction and struggle to hide my disgust. I spend the next 10 minutes forcing myself to swallow and wondering what those folks at Quaker do to make their instant maple oatmeal taste so good.
10:00 A.M.
JENNY'S "LIVING ROOM"
Jenny's living room has a fireplace, sweeping views of rolling green hills and framed black-and-white wedding photos adorning the walls. But instead of a couch and TV, the couple furnished the space with a treadmill, bench, free weights and a Nautilus machine. The family photos share shelf space with medals and plaques from Jenny's storied career. "Some people couldn't believe we used this room as the gym, but it just works," she says.
The prospect of doing a weight workout with Jenny has had me in the gym more times in the past few weeks than I'd been in the past year. And when she says we'll train shoulders since "they're a really important body-part in figure," I'm relieved. (My legs are still recovering from our run, and I was silently praying they'd be spared additional stress.) Jenny sets up a bar for shoulder presses and effortlessly cranks out 12 reps before reracking the weight. I fearlessly take a seat, unlock the bar and struggle to press it up. Before embarrassment kicks in, Jenny rushes to my aid. She takes off a few plates and spots me as I finish my reps. I feel relieved until I realize I've got two more sets and, oh yeah, this is just our first exercise.
12:00 P.M.
JENNY'S KITCHEN
After showering and changing, I'm craving a beef burrito, but I know better. Jenny takes a huge Tupperware container out of the fridge and opens it to reveal about a dozen chicken breasts marinating in a curry dressing. "If I live in my own little world where it's just my prepared food, then I don't feel deprived," she says. "Off-season, I'll cook my meals in the morning, but when I'm precontest, I cook on Wednesday and Sunday and freeze enough for the week." As she grills our lunch, I ask what her favorite cheat food is. I imagine her confessing that she ends each day with a pint of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream, but that's obviously not the case.
"I don't cheat in my house, only when I go out to eat," she responds. I push harder and bring up the well-stocked wine fridge I noticed in the kitchen, and finally Jenny breaks. (Well, sort of.) "Yeah, there's plenty of wine," she says with a devilish grin. The truth is that while Jenny doesn't continuously diet, she also doesn't deviate much from her contest meals. "If you go from eating anything you want to dieting, it's a shock to your system," she explains. "So I eat pretty clean." Jenny's "pretty clean" is my equivalent of "extreme deprivation." She subsists on plain oatmeal, grilled chicken and fish, vegetables and rice, with the occasional glass of wine and serving of dessert. The last few weeks before a contest, she kicks into high gear, eliminating all carbs except for vegetables. I dieted for about two weeks in preparation for this day and felt deprived and cranky, but Jenny assures me it's worth it. "In the process of getting there it takes lots of pep talks, but it's really rewarding when you're onstage," she says. I nod but don't buy it.
1:30 P.M.
DIABLO VALLEY PERSONAL TRAINING FACILITY
Jenny and I arrive at a personal training facility near her home. She typically trains up to six clients a day here, but today she'll be leading a posing seminar for aspiring competitors. I've been promised a boot camp-style immersion in figure competition, and Jenny has even brought along the suit she wore at the 2004 Olympia to help me play the part.
I'm sequestered in an office with our hair and makeup artist, Jamie Taylor. After I'm bronzed, glued and (somewhat) clothed, it hits me: I'm a writer, not a figure competitor. I've been dieting and training for a few weeks, not several months. What the hell was I thinking? Thankfully, Jamie becomes my stage mom and convinces me to walk out the door. I join the circle of 20 women who have each paid $69 to listen to Jenny dole out her wisdom. We're each given a number to pin to our suits, and when my group is called, I take a place in the front row.
"Quarter turn, pose." I hit it--with hands perfectly positioned, glutes tucked, shoulders up and over hips. "Step, left, pivot and together." I follow Jenny's directions, trying to suck my belly into my spine, point my index fingers and relax the rest of my hand. ("Claws" are a no-no.) After five minutes, I've completely forgotten I'm half-naked in front of a room full of strangers. I'm flexing hard and sweating profusely but never breaking my smile. I steal a look at myself in a mirror and wish I'd worked harder on my legs. But then I look around.
