I've never felt like a strong person. Physically strong. I was a scrawny kid. Short, painfully thin, uncoordinated, picked last in gym class. I felt fragile. Twiggy. Vulnerable. Inadequate. These feelings were reinforced by a jock in high school, a boy I had a huge crush on, coming up to me and gripping my right calf in both of his hands and declaring that I was so skinny he could break my leg in two with his bare hands. And it was possible. Maybe. I felt it was possible. And this isn't the only instance of such a thing happening. Only the most vivid.
This general sense of fragility played into the type of guy I chose to date, ...when boys finally started showing an interest in me. I have always had a thing for big guys; big, bear-like, barrel-chested men. But I also had, especially back then, a pretty healthy (or maybe not healthy, not sure) fear of being raped. So I avoided the big guys, because I knew they could overpower me if they wanted to. I didn't feel inherently safe with them. And I knew if I was ever going to take all my clothes off and lose my virginity, I was going to have to feel safe.
Another thing you should know about me is that I've always been very competitive with men, boys. In grade school, I never cared if I got better grades than the girls in my class. I wanted better grades than the boys. I think, even then, I was acutely aware that the deck-of-life was stacked against women. I knew who I had to be better than. I wasn't going to waste my time feeling competitive with the girls. But I also knew that in a physical arena, I was never going to be better, stronger, faster than the boys. Hell, I wasn't better, stronger, faster than any of the girls. I wasn't designed for it. I definitely wasn't encouraged to do anything remotely athletic by my sports-averse parents. So I didn't try.
Fast-forward many years, to my early thirties. I'd gained some unwanted weight, and I joined the gym in hopes of getting rid of it. I made no progress in the first few months, so I asked for a couple of complimentary sessions with a personal trainer. And they assigned me this very nice young man who, through no fault of his own, triggered every ounce of inadequacy I have. He was a tall, extremely fit, handsome black man. He was the embodiment of athleticism. At least in my head. I knew I would never, ever, no matter what I did, be as strong and fit as he was. And so I did everything he suggested, and felt like crap about myself every single moment, and then I politely asked at the desk if there wasn't a woman who could be my personal trainer instead. And they obliged. My new personal trainer was a short, stocky woman who looked nothing like me. And I didn't resent her for being athletic. And she didn't make me think of inequality as I was doing my reps. (Yes, I do see the irony of a black man making me feel not-equal, I do, I do. And you can't imagine how guilty I felt running into him at the gym after I’d requested someone new.)
Anyhow, I didn't stick with the woman all that long either, even though I was far more comfortable with her. The fact was the whole gym scene (even though this was the Y and didn't have the douchebag scene you see at trendier gyms) made me feel like that get-picked-last-in-gym-class kid all over again. I needed to find a form of exercise and a setting that wasn't going to make me feel worse about myself.
Fast-forward another few years. I'm nearly 40. I've had a kid. I've lost some pounds and dropped a pant size or two. I'm active. I ride my bike everywhere in the warmer months, often carting my computer along so I can work outside my home. And I end up straining my rotator cuff. Repetitive motion injury, not from golf or tennis or baseball, like a real athlete. No, I've hurt myself riding my bike with a heavy back pack. My doctor ships me off to physical therapy.
I call the physical therapist's office, even though, as a rule, I'm not good at taking my doctor's advice. The receptionist makes me an appointment. She says, “You'll be seeing Jason.” Great. Jason. A dude. And probably a hot dude. Because guys named Jason are always hot. Or at least cute. But he's definitely going to be in shape, right? Because he kind of has to be, right? I don't know. I think of the personal trainer experience and try to talk myself into being more open-minded for the other PT experience. I do not request a female PT before even meeting this Jason. That's not fair, and it's really letting my insecurities win.
I go to my appointment. In the waiting area I can hear the physical therapists talking. I hear someone say, “Hey, Jason,” and ask a question. Jason answers. He even sounds attractive. My dread of our meeting increases. And then he comes ‘round the corner to get me and fuck-all if he isn't even better looking than I'd feared. Frat-boy good looking. Not even my type, but tall and fit and blue-eyed, and fucking nice, too. I want to walk out. But I reluctantly follow him to the assessment area where he proceeds to manipulate my limbs and quantify the extent of my injury to my sub-par, unathletic, aging, slightly paunchy body. And I know he's not judging me, not even a little, but I accuse him of it at every turn. He comments that my movements on one strength-building exercise are “kind of jerky.”
“So, you're saying a spaz, that's what you're saying.”
“No! I'm not calling you a spaz!”
I am belligerent, combative, difficult. I try to temper my insecurities with humor, but the day I threaten to kick him in the head while he's pressing the shit out of my shoulder... I'm not really kidding.
Over the weeks, I grow a little more comfortable with Jason. I don't feel less inadequate when I'm with him, but he's so damned nice, and I think I'd only hurt his feelings if I asked to switch to one of the women PTs. And he's not doing anything wrong. He's a good physical therapist. He's already made the revelatory discovery that I have unusually stretchy ligaments, which explains so many things, and improves my self-awareness. I say, “That's why I win at yoga!” And he smiles at my joke.
After each PT session I vent to my Facebook friends. If I'm going to have some handsome whippersnapper unknowingly poke at all my insecurities – both literally and figuratively – people are going to hear about it. I think many of them, not having an inkling of my issues, assume I have a bit of a crush on Jason. And while clearly he's crush-worthy, that is not the crux of the dynamic.
He claims he didn't find me belligerent, and even that I managed to turn into an insult in my head. “So you don't think I have it in me to be difficult?! I'm too little and weak for that?” See? In so many ways I'm still that high school girl having her leg threatened to be snapped in two.
I'd like to think that Jason not only helped me heal my shoulder, but helped me get past a piece of myself, helped me evolve past sophomore year of high school. When I re-injured my shoulder and had to go back to PT, I even requested him. A couple of months ago my right hamstring really started to bother me, especially at the top. When I told my husband of the on-going, nagging pain in my right glute he teased, “You just want an excuse to go back and see Jason.” And I said, “Nuh-uh. There is no way I'm letting that boy touch my ass.” And I meant it. Evolution is a slow process, yes?
This general sense of fragility played into the type of guy I chose to date, ...when boys finally started showing an interest in me. I have always had a thing for big guys; big, bear-like, barrel-chested men. But I also had, especially back then, a pretty healthy (or maybe not healthy, not sure) fear of being raped. So I avoided the big guys, because I knew they could overpower me if they wanted to. I didn't feel inherently safe with them. And I knew if I was ever going to take all my clothes off and lose my virginity, I was going to have to feel safe.
Another thing you should know about me is that I've always been very competitive with men, boys. In grade school, I never cared if I got better grades than the girls in my class. I wanted better grades than the boys. I think, even then, I was acutely aware that the deck-of-life was stacked against women. I knew who I had to be better than. I wasn't going to waste my time feeling competitive with the girls. But I also knew that in a physical arena, I was never going to be better, stronger, faster than the boys. Hell, I wasn't better, stronger, faster than any of the girls. I wasn't designed for it. I definitely wasn't encouraged to do anything remotely athletic by my sports-averse parents. So I didn't try.
Fast-forward many years, to my early thirties. I'd gained some unwanted weight, and I joined the gym in hopes of getting rid of it. I made no progress in the first few months, so I asked for a couple of complimentary sessions with a personal trainer. And they assigned me this very nice young man who, through no fault of his own, triggered every ounce of inadequacy I have. He was a tall, extremely fit, handsome black man. He was the embodiment of athleticism. At least in my head. I knew I would never, ever, no matter what I did, be as strong and fit as he was. And so I did everything he suggested, and felt like crap about myself every single moment, and then I politely asked at the desk if there wasn't a woman who could be my personal trainer instead. And they obliged. My new personal trainer was a short, stocky woman who looked nothing like me. And I didn't resent her for being athletic. And she didn't make me think of inequality as I was doing my reps. (Yes, I do see the irony of a black man making me feel not-equal, I do, I do. And you can't imagine how guilty I felt running into him at the gym after I’d requested someone new.)
Anyhow, I didn't stick with the woman all that long either, even though I was far more comfortable with her. The fact was the whole gym scene (even though this was the Y and didn't have the douchebag scene you see at trendier gyms) made me feel like that get-picked-last-in-gym-class kid all over again. I needed to find a form of exercise and a setting that wasn't going to make me feel worse about myself.
Fast-forward another few years. I'm nearly 40. I've had a kid. I've lost some pounds and dropped a pant size or two. I'm active. I ride my bike everywhere in the warmer months, often carting my computer along so I can work outside my home. And I end up straining my rotator cuff. Repetitive motion injury, not from golf or tennis or baseball, like a real athlete. No, I've hurt myself riding my bike with a heavy back pack. My doctor ships me off to physical therapy.
I call the physical therapist's office, even though, as a rule, I'm not good at taking my doctor's advice. The receptionist makes me an appointment. She says, “You'll be seeing Jason.” Great. Jason. A dude. And probably a hot dude. Because guys named Jason are always hot. Or at least cute. But he's definitely going to be in shape, right? Because he kind of has to be, right? I don't know. I think of the personal trainer experience and try to talk myself into being more open-minded for the other PT experience. I do not request a female PT before even meeting this Jason. That's not fair, and it's really letting my insecurities win.
I go to my appointment. In the waiting area I can hear the physical therapists talking. I hear someone say, “Hey, Jason,” and ask a question. Jason answers. He even sounds attractive. My dread of our meeting increases. And then he comes ‘round the corner to get me and fuck-all if he isn't even better looking than I'd feared. Frat-boy good looking. Not even my type, but tall and fit and blue-eyed, and fucking nice, too. I want to walk out. But I reluctantly follow him to the assessment area where he proceeds to manipulate my limbs and quantify the extent of my injury to my sub-par, unathletic, aging, slightly paunchy body. And I know he's not judging me, not even a little, but I accuse him of it at every turn. He comments that my movements on one strength-building exercise are “kind of jerky.”
“So, you're saying a spaz, that's what you're saying.”
“No! I'm not calling you a spaz!”
I am belligerent, combative, difficult. I try to temper my insecurities with humor, but the day I threaten to kick him in the head while he's pressing the shit out of my shoulder... I'm not really kidding.
Over the weeks, I grow a little more comfortable with Jason. I don't feel less inadequate when I'm with him, but he's so damned nice, and I think I'd only hurt his feelings if I asked to switch to one of the women PTs. And he's not doing anything wrong. He's a good physical therapist. He's already made the revelatory discovery that I have unusually stretchy ligaments, which explains so many things, and improves my self-awareness. I say, “That's why I win at yoga!” And he smiles at my joke.
After each PT session I vent to my Facebook friends. If I'm going to have some handsome whippersnapper unknowingly poke at all my insecurities – both literally and figuratively – people are going to hear about it. I think many of them, not having an inkling of my issues, assume I have a bit of a crush on Jason. And while clearly he's crush-worthy, that is not the crux of the dynamic.
He claims he didn't find me belligerent, and even that I managed to turn into an insult in my head. “So you don't think I have it in me to be difficult?! I'm too little and weak for that?” See? In so many ways I'm still that high school girl having her leg threatened to be snapped in two.
I'd like to think that Jason not only helped me heal my shoulder, but helped me get past a piece of myself, helped me evolve past sophomore year of high school. When I re-injured my shoulder and had to go back to PT, I even requested him. A couple of months ago my right hamstring really started to bother me, especially at the top. When I told my husband of the on-going, nagging pain in my right glute he teased, “You just want an excuse to go back and see Jason.” And I said, “Nuh-uh. There is no way I'm letting that boy touch my ass.” And I meant it. Evolution is a slow process, yes?
