The Feminine Physique

Years ago, when my body simply was what it was, soft and long, before I had even contemplated changing it into anything else, I came across Martin Schoeller’s Female Bodybuilders on a bookstore display table. In it were studio-lit portraits of women whose faces had been reduced to bone and socket and vein, whose skin had been stained with spray tan and eyes outlined in shadow. Enormous muscles rose up to enclose their necks. They looked prehistoric, fossilized and eternal. I thought they had destroyed their chances at love. My mistake was to assume they were living under the star of sexual capital, as I was. After all, they wore the rhinestones and velvet of showgirls. What I didn’t yet understand was that bodybuilders are ruled by a different star, the same star that would later rule me, if only temporarily. It was dim and solitary, with enormous gravity. I still don’t have a name for it.

Since childhood, one of my chief desires had been to show no weakness. Throughout my twenties I worked in restaurants where my coworkers would offer sealed jars, kegs, cases of wine, and banquettes on which I could perform feats of strength. But the impression of strength I cultivated was rooted less in my appearance—tall and slender—than in my determination. Then, at age thirty, I began lifting weights, and my body changed rapidly. I looked in the mirror and flexed my newborn muscles. I was finally mastering what had, since puberty, seemed uncontrollable. Granted, this mastery was taking my body in a direction I had never intended—my other chief desire since childhood was to be Jessica Rabbit—but I sensed a growing congruity between my physical form and my desire for respect. One day, all I would have to do would be to wear a sleeveless shirt.