My boyfriend is an amateur bodybuilder. I think from now on, I'm going to call him "the bodybuilder" rather than "my boyfriend" because now that I'm getting new readers that don't even know him, I feel it necessary to protect his privacy. Not only that, but as a person, while I am embodied by many things, I am most clearly embodied as "that guy's girlfriend." In his life however, as person, he is not only my boyfriend. In fact, that is a very small part of him. Minuscule. He is a bodybuilder, above all else. (As for my identity, I am working on that. I am an aspiring lawyer and I am seeking out new passions, but right now all that I have that is concrete in my identity is that I am his. Sue me.)
I have a job of course, but I am awakened a lot before it is my time because the bodybuilder likes to wake up at 6 or 7 am to go to the gym. He normally has to be at work himself at 12, sometimes later, but typically he needs to get his three hour workout in before work. I try to ignore him when he rustles out of bed beside me when the alarm goes off, although I'm pleasantly back to a groggy sleep by the time he rains goodbye kisses all over my face right before 7, 7:30. He normally guilts me into preparing food for him ahead of time for his entire day, as he needs around 240 grams of protein a day to ensure he is constantly building mass. For me, that means pan frying steaks that he will later complain are dry and baking or sauteeing whole plastic bags of frozen chicken breasts so that he alone can eat that day.
I am gifted by my own pleasant sack of insecurities. I hate my haircut, my body, even my clothes sometimes. I'll throw on something I know is unflattering because I get so frustrated with myself. He is on the other side of the spectrum; he literally compliments himself more than he compliments me. I'm not a compliment fisher, but despite the various problems in our relationship that preys on my insecurities (including history in a previous relationship that was abusive, and the bodybuilder poring over porn starring girls that are more his "type" than I am--now that he'd say such a thing, but I'm not stupid.) you'd think he'd tell me I look good once in awhile. Yesterday, he actually put on a pair of jeans I'd picked out for him and looked back and forth between the mirror and me pensively, while I prepared for some sort of compliment that I could soak in appreciatively...
"Look at these abs," he says, pointing to his perfectly carved abdominals displayed over his tight True Religion jeans, "like a model's, with the underwear...." He trails off when he sees the look on my face.
This drives me crazy, of course. I am working on that too. I don't know what you all know about bodybuilders, but they're very self absorbed, and rightfully so. Their livelihood and pride rests upon how they look; it rests upon how full, proportional, and large every single muscle is in comparison to every other one. I understand that, but I also wonder how any of them stay married. I am still a female, with various needs and wants, even though I'm more down to earth than your average girl, and I need to feel special and noticed. I wonder all the time where our relationship is destined to end up, because I love him desperately; I know love isn't sure all the time, and sometimes, it doesn't even mean much, but I feel a lot of the time that he is the skin that is holding me together. And of course, it is a problem that I don't have much of an identity beyond him, on top of all the insecurities I have both how I look and how I am on the inside. I'm sure it'll work out; it always does.
