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Thoughts on my 38th Birthday
|I'm writing this now in the hope of some positive reinforcement on my 38th birthday. Like probably everybody here, I started lifting because I was skinny and sick of the way that my physical presence made me perceive my masculanity. I was a runner, so I was in good cardio-vascular shape -- although strangely, I'm in better cardio shape now than I was when I was eighteen and running seven miles a day -- but I wasn't big. There was barely anything to qualify as "ripped." I was bone, skin, and tendon.
Skinny, awkward, gangly. Horrible adjectives that lurked in the shadows of the mind, jumping out with a high-school ferocity around the jocks, and the popular kids. In the small town where I grew up, there were under fifty kids in my graduating class, and I was the skinny one -- really skinny, and probably gay, too. One-hundred fifty-nine pounds -- six-foot one. Wisp of a boy aching to become a man. Late bloomer.
Like many of you, I sense, I was into comic books. Ultra-masculine images -- heroic identities -- teaching us the distracting fantasy of the magic pill, the potion, the elixir, the medallion, the WHATEVER-IT-WAS that always caused some skinny, awkward, gangly young boy to turn into the ultimate man. That dream, the hope that someday, it might be ME. C'mon, tell me that when you were a teenager, you DIDN'T have that fantasy.
And that brought me to bodybuilders, and big muscle -- starting me down the road that I'm on now. And -- as usual -- giving far too much exposition for the point I want to make -- just like my stories.
Well, today, after an AMAZING chest workout, I weighed myself -- which I only do once a week -- and today, on the eve of my 38th birthday, I've reached a personal life's goal, or dream, or Quixotian quest --
I broke two-hundred pounds -- two-hundred pounds with single-digit bodyfat.
You know what, guys? It feels fuckin' awesome. Seriously. I know it sounds shallow to say that my concept of masculanity rests in my physical appearance, but I DO believe it plays a factor in EVERY man's concept of self. I don't know if that's even an arguable point for me. My life experience -- my ride, as it were -- clearly presents this to me as a lesson -- MY lesson. MY life-lesson -- well, one of them. Through the years, through the lifting and growing and learning, I've become comfortable with my physical self, and because of that, others are comfortable with it, too.
But the best part of all? At six-one, two-hundred-and-two pounds, home from the gym with an INCREDIBLE pump in my chest, wearing only the hot little fuscia-thong with the built-in cockring that I wore under baggy sweats during my workout, as I flex in the mirror on the wall next to the computer here and make the halves of my chest bounce back and forth -- a favorite trick of mine -- I come to my greatest new truth:
I want to be bigger.
Maybe my next shot will be two-fifteen or two-twenty. Hell, maybe I'll aim at two-twenty five. I just know I want to be bigger. Don't get me wrong. I like what I got. I like it a lot. And others like it, too. But I think I'd like to put on a bit more size. Bring up my legs a little more. I have good hamstrings -- and a terrific ass -- but I could stand to bring my lower-quads up. Could more size on legs EVER hurt?
Thirty-eight. Six-one, two-hundred-and-two pounds, thirty-two inch waist, and I still want to be a little bigger.
Is that cool, or what?
Eight weeks before my high-school reunion, I bid you adieu, Tom
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