Fred Aiken Writing

I’ve been preparing for this day for months. I drink nearly a half gallon of milk, do one hundred pushups, and then meditate in complete silence in the corner of a dark room where no one can find me. I’m preparing for the arm wrestling competition later today.

It’s not one of those professional sort of things. Strictly amateur. In fact, I don’t even think you could classify it as amateur either. It’s a family reunion competition, in a way. But I’ve come to learn that the Samson family doesn’t play around with these sorts of things–and by these sorts of things, I mean anything relating to strength and displays of strength, no matter how frivolous.

As someone who married into the Samson family, I feel as if I need to prove myself. I met my husband six years ago after graduate school and landing a job in data analysis. I felt as if I finally found my footing, and then I met David and he swept me off my feet. We got married a little more than two years into our relationship. But back then, I was pretty slim. I never worked out. My job did not require me to do any sort of heavy lifting. So when I met the rest of the Samson clan, I received plenty of comments about how small and out of shape I looked.

“Ain’t you a scrawny one,” my now-father-in-law matter-of-factly commented the first time we met. The rest of David’s family was just as ruthless.

David assured me that his family was just joking, and that they didn’t really mean it. In fact, them joking and teasing me meant that they liked me, in some fashion.

After we were married for a few months, he then proceeded to let me know that the annual Samson family reunion was coming up.

“People still do those sorts of things?” I asked.

“Some, yeah, I suppose. I’m guessing your family never did?”

“Maybe…I guess, perhaps once when I was younger. But it was such a pain in the ass that I think we kinda all just agreed to never do another one again. Now my entire extended family doesn’t really get together except for weddings and funerals.”

“Sounds…really depressing. But yeah, the Samson lot, well, we like to make a bit of a thing of it. We get together once a year. It’s great fun. We have good food, catch up, and we even put on some fun competitions–“

“Competitions?”

“Yeah, you know, to make the whole event a bit more fun, we do a few competitions. Nothing real big. Though some of the family members like to put money on them, I suppose.”

“What sort of competitions?”

“Tug-o-war, football, mud wrestling, arm wrestling, and the sort.”

“That all sounds rather intense.”

“I suppose. But don’t worry, you don’t have to compete in any of them if you don’t want. It’s all strictly voluntary.”

So I naively believed David, and I didn’t think much of it. I went to the annual Samson family reunion shindig, and had some good ultra-processed food with a family I just married into, and watched as David’s family displayed their strength and stamina in various fun-loving (of sorts) competitions. A few of his uncles and aunts did, in fact, place money on some of the competitions, but they were all fairly small sums.

Then someone (I forget who, exactly) asked me, “What’re you going to compete in, stringbean?”

It took me a moment to realize they were talking to me. And even still, I had not fully processed their question.

I think they realized my confusion, because they asked again, “You going to compete today? Or did you just come here for the free lunch?”

“I was told that competing was optional. I didn’t realize…”

“Oh yeah, I suppose it is. But that’s no fun, now is it?! Arm wrestling’s up next. Perhaps you should put some skin in the game.” It did not sound as if they were making a jovial suggestion, but rather implying that if I didn’t compete in some way, then I was slapping every member of the Samson family in the face–including their elders and youngin’s–so I best signup for at least one thing.

“I don’t think I would be much of any competition. I haven’t arm wrestled in–“

“Ages! By the look of it! Hoboy, don’t you look it. But it’ll be fine. Bobby’s the reigning champ, but he’ll go light on ya. It’s all in good fun!”

“I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit.”

But Bobby did not go light on me, as they said. Bobby went into the Samson family reunion arm wrestling competition with the same sort of intensity and aggression that one might expect if he were fending off a black bear attack or wrestling with the jaws of a shark. I did not stand a chance. Within the blink of an eye, my arm and hand were pinned to the picnic table within seconds and with such intensity that I few splinters lodged themselves into my hand. It was hardly a competition. But the Samson clan hooped and hollered for their virile, muscle-clad Bobby. I’m fairly certain that the person that convinced me to compete in the arm wrestling competition made a few easy bucks off of me.

Afterwards, David came up to me and said, “That was quite something. I didn’t think you would’ve been interested in competing.”

“I wasn’t. I think one of your uncles made it seem like it was required, sort of. At least, I certainly felt guilt-tripped into doing it.”

“Aw, I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit intense, but it’s all in good fun.”

And I’m sure it was all fun…for everyone else. I, on the other hand, was completely mortified. I hadn’t even lasted ten seconds in the arm wrestling match-up. I felt small. Perhaps even smaller than small. I felt like the weakest creature in the entire universe at that moment.

I vowed to never feel that small ever again at one of David’s annual Samson family reunions. So I trained. I trained hard. I changed my diet, started eating a lot more protein. Focused my diet and workout routine on solely gaining as much muscle and mass–I sometimes jokingly referred to it as my M&M diet to David–as possible. An absurd amount of muscle. I contemplated doing steroids, but I maintained reason and figured that doing steroids for a family reunion arm wrestling wasn’t worth all the side-effects. But it was still tempting.

You might be wondering how I did. Did I get my revenge on Bobby and his muscle-obsessed Samson clan? The short of it; no, I did not win the arm wrestling revenge matchup against Bobby Samson. He’s been working construction for nearly twenty years and has the sort of sinewy musculature that one year’s worth of hitting the palatial, air-conditioned gym isn’t going to match up too well against.

But no one in the family mentioned the smallness of my stature or thinness, so I guess in a way that’s somewhat of a victory.