One of the more interesting factors in being partnered with someone for a big long stretch of time (almost a third of my life — weird) is getting to watch them change. For instance, my artsy-fartsy musician “lover not a fighter” male-lesbian husband has become a jock.

Again.

I wasn’t around for Andreas’ first wave of jock-hood, which was in high school and early college when he was an three-hours-a-day soccer player and obsessive rock climber. By the time I met him he’d been rejected from WWU’s soccer team and had traded in his cleats for dancing shoes and turntables.

But a funny thing happened on his way to his early 30s: Dre’s totally jocked out. The last year has been a whirlwind of road biking, weekly soccer games, jogging, regular circus classes (both aerialist and acrobatics), lunchtime gym-bunny routines, and Ashtanga yoga. Dude is a jock machine.

Not that I’m complaining. Dre’s still the same ol’ sweety, so while I can’t relate when he starts going on about muscle fatigue, he’s got these gymnast arm muscles now that are all ROAWR! I want to eat them.