I creeped myself out yesterday. Well, it actually started a few days ago. No, that's not really true--it honestly started over 20 years ago. I suspect that I was probably creeping out others way back then....and, only yesterday, I finally understood their reaction and was actually left feeling a bit uncomfortable in my own skin.

As an undergrad, it was not a well-kept secret that I wanted arms like Martina Navratilova.  Anyone who was ever trapped in a conversation with me that lasted over two minutes was bound to hear me exclaim, "if I had arms like Martina, I'd rule the world." And the emotion behind the comment wasn't nearly as exaggerated as I wish it truly were. The truth is, I was utterly fascinated by her arms. Sadly though, looking at me then (or even now), I appear to have not Navratilova as a model for the most perfectly-sculpted arms but, instead, Olive Oyl. In spite of the fact that I could throw a softball from deep centerfield to homeplate on one hop, or crush it with a bat a much farther distance, my arms are just plain skinny. But I have never given up the hope.

That hope, however, came at the expense of others. Many others.  There was JC, a guy I dated as an undergrad. He suffered through the months and months when I was on my Eat to Win diet, a diet that left me preaching the virtues of eating just like Navratilova. He sufficiently suppressed his chuckles of cynicism when I oftentimes so proudly said, "I bet Martina ate the very same thing today."  He humored me, offering to play racquetball with me occasionally, but he voiced his rather justifiable concerns one day when I mentioned to him my new friend, a friend I had made in my much-hated linguistics class. You see, we befriended one another one day during class, a class during which I often battled to stay awake, a battle I often lost. I was startled awake that day when someone behind me passed me a note. "You have great gams!," it read. 

Without looking behind me to see who'd given it to me, I scribbled, "Thanks--but they're artificial," and tossed the note back over my shoulder. I was a bit surprised when the chuckle behind me was obviously that of a woman. After class, I turned to speak to my note-passer and met Serena, a petite brunette who I often tripped with my backpack that I so delicately threw down in the middle of the aisle.

"I wish I had more muscle tone in my legs," she started. I thought her strange, but even more strange when she said, "I suspect that if I had legs like Martina Navratilova, I'd rule the world!" My freak-alert kicked in.

"Legs? You can't be serious. You want her LEGS?" I struggled to keep my voice in a low-enough octave to prevent her from catching on to the fact I thought she was whacked out. "It is her arms, my dear, HER ARMS that are to be envied."

"Her arms?!" she squealed in an octave that let me know she suspected I was out on a day-pass. And from that, we began a friendship.

JC often voiced concerns about our friendship, a friendship that led to Serena and I occasionally planning to work out together, plans that were, ultimately, just that: plans. She and I sat together, chatted together, and sometimes ate together, but that was it.  JC wondered how a healthy friendship between two women could be forged over a mutual worship of an athlete. I knew what JC was implying, but I chose to ignore it. After all, it really was his problem, not mine, that he didn't understand the importance of sculpting one's body to look like Martina. Silly man.

Eventually, however, JC and I went our separate ways, and Serena went off to UVA for grad school, leaving only The Man Who Became The X to humor me.  Now, admittedly, The X and I had our fair share of problems, but to his credit, he was an amazingly patient soul when it came to understanding my Navratilova fantasy. In fact, during all of those years of my asking, "do you think my arms are bulking up?," the nastiest thing he ever did was answer me by affecting a falsetto and walking off saying, "Hello. My name is Martina." He put up with me, each year, bouncing at the foot of the hotel bed while he desperately tried to sleep through the Wimbledon finals. I don't know how it was that we always ended up on vacation during that weekend, or even more curious, why it was that he never opted to move the television away from the foot of the bed so that he wouldn't hear or feel the effects of my squealing and jumping with every point that Martina won. But back then, I only thought it strange that he was SLEEPING when MARTINA was on tv. THAT was weird.

After The X, there was my friend Christine. She has great arms, fleshy enough to be feminine, but large and toned, muscular enough for me to ask her to flex each time I see her (which, perhaps is the very reason we don't see each other as often as I'd like). It is quite difficult for me to overcome the urge to touch her arms incessantly, a behavior I think others might consider odd. But she really does have great arms and I don't understand why she doesn't walk around sleeveless in the dead of winter. I know that I would if I had arms like that.

And then there's the guy I dated off and on for a few years, the man who suffered the most. He is the only man I have dated who truly had really muscular arms, exquisite arms--and I never let him forget it. I grabbed his arms every chance I could, knowing he'd flex the muscles at my touch. After a few months of my doing this, he retaliated by beginning to grab MY arms and urging ME to "make a muscle--come on--show me what you've got." I'd struggle and strain beneath his grip and when I'd finally give in and say, "I AM flexing," he'd laugh and say, "No, really. C'mon. FLEX!" However, once, he really brightened my day, if only for a flash. We bumped into one another after not having seen each other for a year or so and he said, "Wow, have you been working out or something? Your arms are really beefed up!" I puffed with pride, pushed my shirt-sleeve up to my shoulder, bent my arm at the elbow, and did my muscle-man pose. He rubbed his eyes a few times and said, "Hmm. Maybe not. Must've been a shadow." I suppose I had brought that on myself, but I thought he was being a cruel asshole just the same.

Honestly, though, I look back and think of the one time during which I should have experienced one of those light-shining-from-above epiphanies. It was during a visit with my orthopaedist, a sports medicine specialist who I had been seeing for treatment of a lingering leg injury. I saw him for such an extended period of time that we'd become fairly chummy. I felt so comfortable with Dr. C that I oftentimes modelled for him my neuroses and eventually, I exposed my arm-thing. He asked me to stand, to turn, to flex my leg muscles, my arm muscles, and each time he measured them with a tape, scribbled something on a piece of scrap paper, and then grunted that medical professional grunt of diagnostic understanding. He finally looked up from his doodlings and I saw that, instead of having written down the measurements,  he'd drawn a stick figure on crutches. As I sat down in defeat, he smiled and said, "Ann, I know you want bigger arms. And I am so sorry you've worked that hard for your entire life to achieve them. But for you, there really is only one way to get them and it is quite easy." Of course, I leaned forward with eager anticipation, literally brought to the edge of my seat, desperately awaiting the promised solution for this almost life-long quest for better arms. "Steroids," he deadpanned, as he quickly dodged the kick and/or punch he was expecting from me. But I didn't move. I just sat there. He touched my injured leg and launched into his speech about the overall body weight I'd have to gain to achieve bigger arms, the exercises and protein supplements I'd have to endure. Uncharacteristically, I sat there quietly, diplomatically, giving a rather convincing performance of the dutifully listening patient. However, inside my head, I'd long since said to him "fuck you" and had begun to ignore him. I think he knew it because when I left his office that day he said, "forget about your arms, Ann."

But I didn't forget about my arms.  The other day, while I was undertaking a task from which Hercules would shy away, I strained my arm muscles and was able to catch a glimpse of them in the mirror. No, I wasn't doing my three hundredth push up (ok--actually 15 is my personal record)--I was trying to straighten my hair. And when I pulled the brush through the mop that is my hair, I saw a vein bulge...on the underside of my right forearm. I was ecstatic, so I did it again...and again...and again. I've waited my entire life to have a vein bulge from my arms and this moment was near-magical for me. So yesterday, I sat down to write that I'm on my way to finally achieving my goal of having Martina-like arms. I typed sporadically throughout the day and every time I read over what I'd written, it just seemed like some weird homage written by a sad, skinny-armed woman to a woman who most people never, ever consider and who even fewer idolize. I read it repeatedly, thinking something would change, but each time, my flesh crawled with the realization that...well....it was just creepy.

So now, I want to apologize to all of you whose arms I have ogled and grabbed over the past twenty or so years. Furthermore, I also will promise to never, ever again engage a stranger in a conversation about their arms nor will I ever again utter the phrase, "if I had arms like Martina, I'd rule the world." I mean, I'm still going to think it, still going to believe it, still going to work to achieve it, I'm just not going to be so obvious about it anymore.