A recent news program concerning the growing use of steroids among teenagers sent me to bed with a disturbing image stuck in my mind, and judging from the manner in which I later found myself entangled with my blankets, I would guess that my dreams that night had been rather disturbing as well.

The image in my head as I wound down to sleep was of an adolescent girl – who couldn’t have been more than 90 pounds dripping wet – flexing a bicep which appeared to have been destined for a middle-weight boxer but ended up on her shoulder in some sort of genetic miscue.  It seemed wholly out of place on that body, for none of her other muscle systems were developed proportionally.  My first impression conjured up scenes from Popeye cartoons where, after downing the can of spinach, Popeye’s arm would explode to gargantuan size, which leads, of course, to the inevitable pummeling of Brutus or some other bad guy.

Only, the look on this girl’s face wasn’t that of Popeye going “Yuk yuk yuk” as he sends Brutus to the moon.  Oh no, this look was one of an almost mean determination, square into the camera with not even a hint of humor about it.  This was a look you’d expect from Brutus had he ever gotten to the spinach first.

I don’t know exactly what happened during my dream, but when I awoke, swaddled in covers drenched with sweat, I felt as though it was I who had just been to the moon – and back.  Visions of that arm launching a fist into my face kept stabbing me awake.  I couldn’t get back to sleep, wondering why was she punching me?  I hadn’t done anything bad to her, had I?

I closed my eyes, attempting to relax, and began a comprehensive review of my entire life…ravaging my mind, searching for anything in the past which may have precipitated hostility towards me, trying desperately to recall each and every lousy thing I may have done to anyone, ransacking blindly through closets of consciousness my conscience had hidden and, in the process, exposing a part of me previously unknown.  This disturbed me.

I couldn’t relax, so I rolled over face first into my pillow and tried to clear my head.  The air came hard.  After a while, I began to feel a bit dizzy.

It was then, as though brought forth by some strange presence, that I felt the slow creep of latent guilt amassed from centuries of tyranny visit me through channels of ancestry I knew little about.  I saw my forefathers performing evil acts upon those not like them, forefathers related to me only through anatomy and hue, but forefathers who’ve ruled the helm since long before the Caesars; and forefathers, who in the chronicles of this country, have taken everything, calling it theirs.

Let’s face it, we homeboys of the lighter complexion are long overdue for a stomping by those we’ve historically oppressed.  The Indians had their Little Bighorn, but we’ve got the land and they’re on the reservation.  The slaves were emancipated over a century ago, but we still hold the keys to the big house.  However, these persecutions have fallen in our favor only because “we” had the numbers on “them.”  I’m afraid with women it’s going to be different.  This time they’ve got the majority – no doubt because we’ve had to traditionally hunt game, fight wars and do all the other dirty work of civilization while they stayed at home, bonding with one another and strengthening those X-chromosomes.

But please, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not anti-feminist, never have been.  I know a losing battle when I see one.  I had no complaints in the ‘60s when women began burning their bras and stopped shaving their legs and underarms, and I was all for their entry into the corporate workforce during the ‘70s and ‘80s.  Hell, I even page through Ms. magazine while waiting in the dentist’s office, and I don’t care who sees me.  But now it’s the ‘90s and I’m afraid a new age is dawning, and this era is going to be spelled ERA.  They’ve come a long way, baby, from the Garden of Eden, and the guilt is long gone from Eve’s original sin.  Behold, the sisters of the late 20^th Century:  They’re liberated, they’re fit and they have an awfully good memory.  I just want to go someplace and hide.

Aw, maybe I shouldn’t get so worked up.  I’ll bet I’m exaggerating this whole thing in my mind.  That girl most likely didn’t do that to her arm so she could bash guys like me.  It was probably just an act of vanity, or perhaps some form of juvenile role reversal.  Maybe she’s just another consumer of the ‘bigger is better’ philosophy.  I don’t know.  Yet, I still have this creepy feeling that someday I’m going to get smeared, and not for anything I did but just for being what I am, the product of impudent ancestry.  I’ve got to get my karma fixed.  This sort of thing just ain’t fair.