I have a gym membership in PURE SoHo, and it's the stupidest thing, honestly. Right across is a bar that serves HKD30 Happy Hour cocktails, to the left is a Mexican place that serves giant pork burritos and ginormous margaritas, and to the right is Hong Kong's bona fide kebab mecca (I just had one with mixed lamb & chicken, oozing with garlic and chilli sauce, for dinner).
I mean, how am I meant to humanly resist skipping a workout and attacking a deadly meal, one after the other? It's too much for anybody's willpower, honestly.
But what's even more stupid is that I'm the only one who seems to be having issues with self-motivation and self-restraint. I mean, seriously: there are no fat people in PURE SoHo. Most of the clients are over-exercised bunnies with guns the size of Florida oranges, rock-hard buns that would put Halle Berry to shame, and abs so ripped, you can literally file your fingernails on them. Yes, even the geriatrics! It's just the most embarrassing thing when a septuagenarian happily pumps layers and layers of plates, free weights; meanwhile, I'm on a machine loaded with baby weights, huffing and puffing as though I'm about to keel over from emphysema.
C'mon, grampa! Gimme a break! Go play golf or something!
I didn't always struggle like this; no.
In my early 20s, I easily spent about 3 hours in the gym, 4-5 times a week. My body craved and thrived on physical exertion.
But after a few years of toiling behind a desk during the day and practically inhaling martinis during the night, gravity has made its presence known. I used to have a chest that wouldn't give up. Now, I've got a chest that wouldn't fucking stay up. My midsection used to be firm. But my belly has gone to flab faster than you can say "Michelin."
My self-esteem is probably the lowest it has ever been, so now I question myself: Did I let myself go because of my manic desire to get ahead with my career? How do I find a balance? Or, perhaps I actually have a normal physique (i.e. average), except I've simply become hyper-aware of how different I looked then from how... painfully ordinary (?) I look now.
Insecurity is a nasty, nasty thing - especially when you're a gay man. You're meant to look perfect. You're meant to be perfect.
I do want to lose a few more kilograms and regain some definition. After all, I don't want to be scared shitless every fucking time I have to take my shirt off at South Bay Beach. But I refuse to become like the "Emily" character in The Devil Wears Prada, who eats a cube of cheese just when she feels she's about to pass out. Where's the joy in that? Isn't life supposed to be lived? And if I didn't get ahead with my career whilst I'm young and able, how am I meant to be proud of what I've accomplished when I've become just another geriatric?
Ah, life... Perhaps the answers will come to me the next time I'm on the elliptical machine.
With Affection,
James
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| Enough moaning. This is why I'm truly fat. |
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