What the hell happened to you?
I cannot get my eyes off this horrible excuse of a human staring back at me. I remember when you would work out religiously, boasting about how big your muscles were, while flexing for anyone who would pay you any attention.
Now, you stand there like a man clinging to his past, holding on to the biceps, which remain strong, while your stomach just becomes grossly disproportionate to the rest of your once skinny frame.
They used to tease you for being too skinny…called you a beanpole, because you could literally see you rib cage sticking out through your skin.
I remember how scared you were to take your shirt off during those demeaning shirts vs. skins basketball games; afraid to reveal your boney frame to the class. It didn’t matter to you that at least three of your classmates had more legitimate concerns…afraid to unveil their abundance of skin to an incredibly uncaring group of students who didn’t even have the consideration to mock the fat kids behind their back.
Now, older, you wish you maintained your skinny frame, as your once proud ribcage plays hide-and-seek behind an ever expanding wall of fat. You built muscle, but allowed flab to win a war and commandeer your body.
Now, people tease you differently, rubbing and patting your stomach, thinking they are funny when they offer words of discouragement like, ” whoa…what happened here?”
Now, you fear taking your shirt off at the beach in front of complete strangers.
Love handles? How can people call it that? You didn’t love yourself enough to put that burger down; to stop scooping ice cream down your gullet; or stop drinking one beer after another just to get your buzz on. Love handles? What does that make the rest of your stomach – just an orgy of disgusting – ice cream mixed with potato chips, candy bars and pasta?
What the hell happened to you? You’re not flexing much these days, huh? You look sad, angry…tired. You’re a mess. Time took a hold of you and left you a shell of your former self -in longing for the past, unable to the the future and just unwilling to address the present. You disgust me. I cannot even look at you anymore.
I turn away from the mirror in my bathroom, walk toward the elliptical in my living room (the one I hang my clothes on) and look at the old weights sitting on the floor, longing to be held once more. I pick them up, embarking on a daily routine, hoping that with each day, I can be a little less hard on myself for what I’ve become.