The Mirror in the Meat

A short post at the tail end of a very productive day.
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Today, while pondering personal strengths and weaknesses, I took a mental survey of my complete anatomical physiology.  Ass to pecks, abs to elbows, I tried to consider all of my body parts fairly and objectively, leaving out as many personal insecurities as was humanly possible.  The idea was 'self-critique' not 'self-criticism,' function not fault, and after ten minutes or so I ended up with two easy columns.

In column A were my most admirable assets including my arms, chest, and back.  These are what I like to call the 'meathead makers' (i.e. The muscles given the most attention in most male workout as they are the reason the ladies buy tickets to any Guido, gym rat gun show).  Pretty much, men develop these areas for the sole purpose of attracting skanks on a beach (and, skanks, it usually works).  In high school I saw these body parts as the most delicious parts of my cow-ish self, prime rib, New York strip, filet mignon.  With such premium cuts of meat hanging around, why would anyone waste their time on ground beef?  I saw these muscles as the best way to look bigger faster and so I neglected the rest.

Cut to: column B, five years later.  Chicken legs and a spongey core struggling to support my oversized torso. ... So that's why my lower back hurts.

Now, remember when I said I tried to keep my insecurities out of this lil' self-conducted physical?  Well, I never said I succeeded.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, it's incredibly difficult to stand your ground whilst the ugliest parts of your anatomy stare you in the face, taunting you, jiggling from side to side.  I looked at my legs, my feeble, girlish (minus the hair) legs and thought to myself, No wonder I haven't gone anywhere worth mentioning.  Look at the toothpicks I'm walking on.

Of course this is a ridiculous idea; in fact, it's just plain incorrect.  People in wheelchairs, people who don't have legs at all, sometimes they go pretty far in life (though sometimes they just become dependents of the sate and get really sweet parking spots).  Nonetheless, I find it to be an incredibly appetizing notion.

Wouldn't it be nice if all you had to do to fuel your ambitions was strengthen the legs that carry you through them?  A bigger chest would mean a bigger heart, a well-built back would make you brave, stronger arms could help you hold onto to the things you love, and a solid core would keep you centered so that you'd always know who you are.  If building muscle meant building character, a six-pack would actually bring you happiness.

I don't know if health, fitness, and a strong body can help someone find peace, at least not on it's own.  Then again...

... It couldn't hurt.

Day 22.

TFR. SYT.