I hate bullying, which is why I regret my personal history of minor prepubescent harassment.
Growing up, I was never a good girly-girl. I much preferred to climb trees than play with dolls. In fact, I played so hard I ripped holes in my jeans and wore out shoes at a rate that alarmed and aggravated my frugal parents.
I wasn’t the oldest kid in the family, but I was the strongest. And for a brief, but gratifying portion of my childhood, I was the undisputed arm wrestling champion of the Martin family.
My brother, Danny, who was 15 months older than me, should have been a significant threat, but Danny was sickly, skinny and asthmatic. When he was suffering from an asthma attack, I remember he would lay in his bed at night struggling to breathe in a fog of steam and Vicks Vapo-Rub.
As a sister, I should have been more considerate, but I wasn’t.
“Let’s arm wrestle,” I said, challenging him.
“Okay,” Danny said.
He probably knew that he didn’t stand a chance because I was bigger, stronger and healthier.
Stretching out on the Seventies beige living room carpet, we would bend our right arms and clasp hands.
“One two three GO!” I said.
It usually only took a few seconds for me to slam his hand down. I was so strong that sometimes his whole body flipped over. I completely dominated him.
Although I’m sure it bothered him to be beaten by a girl, he always took it well. I don’t think he ever disputed my win, not even when I lorded my victory over him by jumping up and down, pumping my arms in victory and taunting him with the reminder that he had never beaten me.
Danny just bore the indignity of losing to his sister the same way he patiently bore his asthma attacks…. quietly and without complaint.
“Let’s arm wrestle,” I said again a few years later. I hadn’t challenged him for a while so I was looking forward to beating him.
“Okay,” he said. He sounded different. His voice was deeper and when we stretched out on the floor and grasped hands to arm wrestle, I noticed his arms were longer than I remembered.
“One two three GO!” I said.
BAM! He slammed my arm down so fast he flipped me over.
It was then I learned that Danny had a new secret weapon called puberty.
“No fair!” I whined. “I wasn’t ready!”
Danny smiled. He didn’t want to arm wrestle me again. In fact, I don’t know if we ever arm wrestled again. We didn’t need to. He finally beat me.
And I never bullied him again.
***
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/34039290@N06/25067798080″>Good Vibes</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>