Today’s musing starts at the gym. This afternoon I worked out next to Gerald McCoy, a defensive tackle for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. This guy gives new meaning to the word “huge.” He goes 6’4” and 295 pounds according to the NFL stat page. I didn’t see any fat on him; how can you weigh that much in pure muscle?!? Anyway, he is huge. [Note: for any Bucs fans, he was very nice and was working his ass off. Even this Saints’ fanatic could appreciate that.] Would you be surprised if I confessed that I worked out harder today than on some days? That I pushed myself more than I did yesterday? Was McCoy’s strength and testosterone contagious? I don’t think so.
More likely, I felt a need to be strong in the face of his strength. To look strong. To make a good showing. Do I think that I am as strong as McCoy? Not a chance in hell; it is never going to happen. Do I think that McCoy would look over at me and think, “Now THAT is a strong woman?” Nope, but imagine how cool. “Check out the woman with the Mohawk. She is a MACHINE!” Nice fantasy. But, I do want to make a good showing. I do not want to be slacking off. Right? So, I am ok with him being miles stronger, faster, and bigger than I am. Probably everyone reading this can agree with that statement.
But what about my girl?
Ahhh, there we go. I don’t know about you, but my femme is stronger than I am. It is important to point out here that she is 5’ and I am 6.’ She is petite and I am not. I am a ton bigger, and yet… she lifts more than I do – always, it is not a fluke. My only hope is if leverage or height is at play – then I am “stronger.” That does not really count though, does it? The worst is when we work out with a trainer. On more than one occasion the trainer has sent us over to grab weights. It goes like this. To my fiancé, “Grab a kettle bell, 20kg.” To me, “You grab a 16kg.” Argh.
She also happens to be faster. Anyone who knows me will tell you that this part does not say much. I am as slow as molasses on a cold day. When I run, I tend to go up and down as if I am trying to get out of a hole, instead of going forward. My parents used to cringe when I got a hit in softball (which was often – puffing chest out) and had to run the bases. “Run Forrest!” You would think that I would have gotten faster, if nothing else, to save my family from embarrassment. But I never did. My daughter beat me in a foot race several years ago (she is only 8 now). Alas, speed is not my thing. So who cares about the speed anyway? But the strength? Does it bother me as a butch that my fiancé is stronger than I am?
The honest answer is … not always, but sometimes. Why? Well, I think it is because I want to be the big, strong one – the protector. I want to make her feel safe and cared for. I am the one who will chase away the dinosaur, right? I could never be with a woman taller than I am, for similar reasons. I love how small she is. That being said, I like her to be strong, capable, self-confident, and all of those well-balanced things. I want a woman who is sure of herself, hard to push around, able to handle things in the moment. You know?
All the women who are independent
Throw your hands up at me
All the honey’s who makin’ money
Throw your hands up at me
It is sexy to know that she can take care of herself. I love seeing her lift so much more than people would expect her to. Sometimes I just wish I could lift a tiny bit more.
If I were king of the world and could make wishes come true, it would go like this. She would stay strong, freakishly strong as she is, and would be respected as such by all whom she meets – including big strong football players like Gerald McCoy. I would magically become stronger than she is, not overwhelmingly so, but stronger. Does that make me a Neanderthal? You tell me. Butches, are you comfortable with your woman being stronger? Fess up.
So, can I do anything she can do – better? Of course not. I am butch enough to admit it. Yes. Are you?