In Defense of Linda Hamilton Arms—Because, It’s Judgment Day

Recently a colleague was discussing running into an actress at a restaurant in New York. “She looked good,” she said, before adding, “Linda Hamilton arms.” It was unclear whether the comparison to the Terminator star was meant as a dig or a compliment, but I chose to believe it was the latter. Today, August 29, after all, is Judgment Day. To be forever associated with the woman who embodied Sarah Connor, that ’90s Hollywood feminist icon who evolves from a damsel in distress to a powerful force to be reckoned with—the actual mother of the revolution who, on this day in movie history, is responsible for saving the human race—should be an honor. I should know. I, too, have Linda Hamilton arms. Though I didn’t always think of that as a good thing.

I was raised on the rivers of upstate New York and in the oceans of Northern California, swimming since before my earliest memories and surfing as soon as I could get a ride to the beach. Long hours were spent incidentally sculpting my arms under the sun—but it never occurred to me that the muscle fiber was anything but something that made me faster and better, made my days more fun. And yet, I can vividly recall a horrifying moment in high school when, while lifting my arms up to put my hair in a ponytail, I met the gaze of my wide-eyed friends. “You’re so strong,” one of them blurted out to a bit of innocent laughter. In the years when you most hope to go unnoticed for all of your painfully weird and strange ways, that teen exchange encouraged me to limit the verve of my strokes in swim practice and while surfing, hoping my limbs would deflate into something close to willowy, lest I appeared mortifyingly masculine.

Knowing that my arms were capable of such bulky expanses, I spent most of my 20s avoiding burpees and push-ups in workout classes, fearing that Hulk-level biceps and triceps were lurking behind every pair of 5 pound weights. But then Michelle Obama came along. And Beyoncé. And Serena Williams. And, most recently, the U.S. women’s gymnastics team. Capable, beautiful, strong women who represent more than a pretty profile, who get to do the things they love to do because of their could-punch-clear-through-a-wall strength. Who would want to limit them? And by extension, why would I limit myself?

These days, I swim and surf with abandon. I may not escape a month without a comment on the size and shape of my biceps (strangers, suitors, and friends included), and the sleeves of my vintage dress collection may continue to be victimized by my strong limbs—I have torn through seams doing such simple tasks as closing a taxi door while on a date (the death knell of chivalry?), picking up my nephew, and reaching for a glass of water. But I’d rather get to know my tailor better than ask for help paddling into a wave, or opening a jar, for that matter. When the winds die down this evening, New York City is up for one of the best swells it has seen all summer. In other words, I’m ready for Judgment Day.

 

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