Strong As An Ox... Literally

Inspired by my frequent trips to the gym in the last few weeks, and based on the fact that I decided what I want for my birthday - abs and arms - I'd like to ruminate on something that plagues me as much as it would any (nearly) 21-year-old woman.

My Body.

I've never really considered myself an athlete, but I have always been somewhat athletic. Still, no matter what I do, my body insists on being what people might call "curvy" or "shapely." Whatever. Tomato, Tom-ah-to.

But I've accepted my curves and, in what seems to be a blog theme, have formulated a theory about them...

Pioneer Life. Some serious Oregon trail shit.

I'll explain. I'm strong and I'm healthy. I've never seriously injured myself. I rarely fall ill. I have an ample chest and hips that are the same size - hourglass, if you will. So what exactly does that mean?

It means that I am SUPPOSED to be a baby-making, log-hauling, covered-wagon-dragging, butter-churning, rabbit-shooting pioneer women. 

Seriously. I think I would fare well in the harsh terrain of undiscovered territories. These hips don't lie - I could probably have eleven children and nothing would snap. I could till the fields and shoot some game and I wouldn't even die of dysentery. Hell, if the oxen got sick, they'd probably strap me to the wagon and make ME ford the river. I'm a pretty sturdy woman.

And those curves? That hourglass shape? They would have been good for one purpose - attracting the attentions of some rugged, bearded pioneer man who would have seen in me all my potential for the aforementioned butter-churning, log-hauling, and such. Not to mention rockin' the log cabin all night long on a bearskin rug. (Okay sorry, that was a little gross.)

Which is why, when I stand in the weight room among a lot of smelly men, suffocating from the smell and competing egos, I feel a thrill of excitement at exercising my god-given wagon-pulling muscles. And when I awkwardly do lunges between the rows of nautilus machines, I think to myself "Well, these would have come in handy for leading the oxen up the mountains!"

Okay, maybe that's going a little bit too far. And don't worry, I don't wear my best coonskin cap on the treadmill (I save that for the stationary bicycle.) But the point is that I wasn't built to exist in this world where thin and breakable equals beautiful. And I'm just hoping there's some man out there whose primal pioneer instincts are still guiding him in my direction. A man who might spot me across a crowded room and think (albeit subconsciously), "Wow, look at those hips. I bet she makes a mean rabbit stew."