Lovely co-editor and I are currently spending a fair bit of time at the gym, and it’s given me pause to reflect on the chasm that exists between how men and women see their bodies.

I spend several hours a week at the gym lifting weights and pulling on cables and all that hairy stuff, and in between sets I’ve got a minute or so to wander around and stretch, and observe.

Where I and all the other guys work out, the free weights section, is surrounded by mirrors; ostensibly they’re there so you can make sure you’re doing the exercise right and working the right muscles, but we all know, cause we’ve all caught each other doing it, that the real reason is so we can look at ourselves. A decent set of arms looks absolutely fucking sensational when you’re in the middle of a set, believe me.

So when I get home I’m pretty pumped, and I like to think I look good. So I give lovelywife the benefit of a few shirt-off poses, and do that twitching pectorals thing, saying stuff like “Check this out!” and “Raaaarrgghh”. The response is more a “That’s nice, dear, I’m glad you’re getting fit again” than “Oh my hot superman I want to lick the sweat off your bulging chest take me take me take me!!”…

Now when lovely gets back from an hour of treadmill and stepper and that weird-arse elliptical thing, no matter how politely I ask, she’s not pressing her nice flat tummy against my face, or bending over in front of me to pick up the keys she ‘accidentally’ dropped, so I can appreciate the weight she’s lost and the extra firmness of her bum. (Another point of difference: were she to actually do this it would bring about a somewhat more passionate response from me than “That’s nice dear, now I’m trying to watch Top Gear, could you please step out of the way?”)

She’s not alone in this shyness about her body and belief that, at best it’s not good enough, and at worst it’s just plain horrible. Do a quick straw poll of the next ten women you see jogging, and at least half of them, no matter how good a shape they’re in, will have a windcheater tied round their waists to hide their arses, whereas any men you see running will just be out there, guts wobbling, skinny arms flapping away, making sure to give a bit of a “Hey baby, pretty hot, doncha think?” to any passing female runner.

There’ve been a lot of studies on this. One that springs to mind asked men and women to list the things they felt weren’t good enough about themselves. Women averaged about thirty complaints, being everything from (of course) “my bottom”, to “my toes are too long”. Men, on the other hand, came up with five or six at most, if any at all. Of the men who listed any kind of deficiency, every one, no matter how big his dick actually was, wanted a bigger one. The rest of their issues were “I want a six-pack stomach” or “I can’t play guitar or swim breaststroke”.

I guess it’s something we’re stuck with as long as the Y chromosome persists; men, no matter how ordinary we look, are going to go happily through life thinking we look pretty good, and chicks dig us.

Women, on the other hand, no matter how hot they are (hello lovelywife!!!), for some reason are destined to walk around in constant fear of their allegedly giant bottoms knocking over display stands in expensive shops.

To quote Luke T (since he quoted me) “You look bloody great, you really do”.

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