I’ve never been very athletic. I’ve never liked sweating or losing my breath. In high school, though, I discovered an exercise that counted as exercise and didn’t suck: lifting weights. I was particularly fond of curls. I could sit at the curl bench all gym period, if they’d let me. I found it restful and meditative. I liked the feeling of the muscle growing airless with fatigue. I didn’t feel exposed and fat and ugly behind the padded arm-bar. There was no humiliating ritual of picking teams. No being chosen last. Instead of always being the worst and never progressing, I had a sheet of paper with slowly growing numbers of reps and pounds that told me no, I could improve.
So it should come as no surprise that the only muscle definition I’ve ever had is in my arms. Even when my Year In the Hospital caused me to lose half my body weight, you could still see the definition. Excuse me while I humble brag:
Sorry, but I don’t have a concealed carry permit for these guns.
I haven’t lifted weights consistently since leaving the football team. Working out is hard. It’s, well, work. And you have to find time for it. That’s hard. It’s hard to find a place to work out that’s convenient. To arrange the transportation. It’s hard to stay motivated, to believe your efforts will result in real improvement.
So why do random dudes keep trying to stop me?
Seriously. Random dudes, with no personal investment in my life, trying to stop me from lifting weights. I’m not talking about the guys who make you feel uncomfortable by being way buffer in front of the mirror or the guys who annoy you by assuming you WANT their opinion on what weight to use or how to grip the bar. Nor am I even talking about the douchnozzles who take all the 20 lb free weights and don’t put them back. (Don’t be a douchnozzle and return your weights to the rack between each exercise.)
I’m talking about these dudes who feel it is their duty to warn you, “Don’t get TOO buff, now.”
It’s not just guys who actively see me with a weight in my hand. It’s guys in the sporting goods store while I’m shopping for weights. Strangers on the street who see me flex or overhear me talk about lifting. Former co-workers commenting on facebook photos. “That’s great, but be careful you don’t get bulky!” Sometimes, yes, these dudes are women. “No, don’t do that exercise – your ankles might get thick.”
Because, what?
No, seriously, what? Has anyone, ever, in the history of ever, accidentally excelled at something? It took painstaking years of work to make these tiny muscles. I had to work against the female body’s lack of testosterone to build any bulk at all, and I’d gladly be bulkier, if only my body (and slothful habits) allowed. Would you tell a gymnast “Be careful you don’t get TOO flexible?”
“Be careful, author, you might accidentally write a best seller instead of just the middle-list title you’re hoping for! Better ease up now.”
No. It makes no sense. Because that’s not what they’re really saying.
What they’re really saying is, “Be careful you don’t stop being attractive to me.”
Some admit it, adding, “I don’t like women with large muscles,” in case I missed their point.
Do they think that, even though I’m married and not attracted to them, it should be a priority for me to maintain what THEY find attractive? Am I just a decoration on their reality, not a valid part of it in my own right?
Yeesh. To break it down even further, aren’t they claiming a right to set my goals lower than I would set them for myself? To restrain my achievement? Hey, I wonder if this is at all related to that old myth that “women fear success?”
I used to smile and say “Don’t worry, it’s not like I’ll accidentally get too strong,” but they never got that. One hundred percent of the time, the guy in question would then repeat his statements more urgently, seeing that I did not realize how frightfully in peril my attractiveness to him was as I lifted that heavy object.
So now I just sneer at them. I’m told that’s unattractive, too.
Well, good.
