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Why do we work out? Why do we train? Why do we sweat, puke, cry, and everything else in between. We work on our ‘diets’ [meaning what we eat, not how we eat], stare in the mirror, stand on the scale [every-so-often], and dream about tomorrow.
Some say health. Some say to prove a point. Some will just say that want to lose weight.
In the end though; we want to be visually appealing.
It’s a fact that the subconscious to anyone would boastfully or ashamedly admit. It’s our nature to be physically appealing, in hopes of appealing to an individual, or in other words…
Being skinny was hot, love handles were not, and the list can go on about what our culture [and underground culture] have declared attractive, unattractive, and in between.
"Modest is hottest", I heard a girl in church say, trying to breathe from her skin-tight polo.
We’ve created a societal blunder of attempting to incorporate one set design to all the chess pieces on the table. The reality is that we are pawns, kings, queens, and knights in the wind. We’re merely unique by our own design. Yes, we can lose to fat, shed the calories, and boost the heart. We can gather the gear, lace up the shoes, and attempt to ‘kick asphalt’ down the road, but in the end our inner being still suffices to taunt the ever perplexing, thought invoking idea in our mere little minds; do we ever really change?
I can only use myself as an example, as I’m still uncomfortable in my own skin.
Let’s be honest for a moment, I’ve looked in the mirror, I’ve seen one or two ladies bat a second glance. I’ll never say I’m attractive, but I will say there are far worse things out there.
I’ve shed fifty pounds since this time last year. I run like crazy because not only do I find it morbidly fun [disturbing], but because when I don’t, I become paranoid. Absolutely terrified about becoming ‘fat’, going back to dark days of my life. But when I sit back and contemplate the thoughts of ‘going back’, it isn’t just the fear associated with being physically unfit, it’s the revelation of acknowledging that at that point in my life, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, in the eyes of the one person I loved; I wasn’t good enough.
I bust by body daily, attempting to tell myself I’m good enough. I puke up garbage on cold January mornings [today] because I tell myself that I can rise above, that I am better, that I can be greater. It isn’t just about that whole nutty Olympic concept, it’s merely being comfortable in my skin.
I’m sitting here, drinking my favorite drink at the local Starbucks, wearing a leather jacket, Oakley sunglasses, driving gloves, jeans, and a polo. Yet, with that said, I can look in the mirror and still pose the question, “What else can I work on?”
Be weary of such inflammatory and wandering of the mind. As I’m still trying to accept it myself, the same poses true to so many that run and work in the way I do; even if someone accepts you for you; you still have to overcome you.