We've always had issues with self-esteem. It started from having been a runt, a sickly child. We then grew into an overmedicated, overweight teenager. Braces, prescription glasses, zits, student council, editing the school paper - the works. High school was one long trip through Nerdsville. University was a period of sexual uncertainty and awakening. It was both fun and scary. And the first half-decade of our professional life was a long, hard crawl to make it in showbiz. When we hit 25, we said - that's it. We gotta do something else before we got too old and unemployable.
We still struggle with insecurity.
Daily.
Gone is the sinewy shape of a once-upon-a-time Disney boy who has had to perform five times a day to keep the proverbial lights on.
Especially because we organize Mr Gay Hong Kong, we've got a heightened sense awareness about this body that is steadily settling into what it's going to look like in its 30s.
"Are you happy with this?"
Funnily enough, yes.
"Do you feel a pressure to fall into the gay gym bunny stereotype?"
Sometimes.
It'd be nice to be all rock-hard and hot again - not gonna lie.
But at what cost?
We really don't enjoy working out; it hurts. We're really not worried about becoming too obese to keep doing the things we love to do, either.
We value other things more, now, like friends and food and furniture (the couch). Laughter. TV. Chocolate. Music. Travel. Blogging. Our baby nephew, Robin.
Insecurity is an awful thing. But it's not likely going away.
So these days, when we catch a whiff of happiness or contentment, we grab it.
We savour it.
We fucking enjoy it.
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