I began working out in 2016; then, I quit in about 12 days. I took it up again after the COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns ended, went to the gym for about 2 months, and then quit again. Finally, around January 2023, I began going religiously and have continued the regimen to this date. I am proud of myself, but this isn’t a tale about gym going, being a man of routine, pushing through the pain sort of a story. You can find loads of ‘motivational’ workout content elsewhere. This isn’t the place.
What I want to talk about is this: I can’t stop taking pictures of my body in the mirror!
Before you judge me, this began as my neighbor, gym buddy, and childhood friend asked if we could do a before and after picture comparison. I agreed. We took a picture every 10–12 days and compared progress. Simple.
However, I must confess that checking oneself out in the mirror had been a strange concept until then. Now, it was like a prayer. This is not the habit I want to talk about either. Sorry, please hold on!
Before you judge me, I must divulge my affinity for appreciation. Especially when it’s something that I am not particularly proud of. It is nothing unique; everyone I know says that they hate themselves but blush like a character from Jane Austen’s books when someone tells them how amazing they are. We’ve all been there.
Right, so I don’t like my body. It’s getting better but nah! I want more.
I took a picture one day and got it ready to be pushed away like a paper plane along with the inviting wind. I got a signal into the antenna protruding through my chest straight from one of the four chambers of the heart: whichever’s the biggest. The signal carries a special message that only I can decipher. I let the plane fly.
I receive a signal from the other end. “ooh, sexy Avinash,” it says. I smile a little.
Before you let your dirty minds wander too far about, this was a grown man assuming the spirit of a 10-year-old seeking validation if his biceps had grown or if his abs could be counted.
“Just the one? Want more” The signal-receiving antenna lights up again.
“This is it. You only get one a day,” the message was transmitted just as quickly.
And that was it. 6 days a week, come back from the gym, flex the part that had seen the brunt of the self-inflicted weight-laden agony, click a picture, float it away, read the response, smile a little, repeat.
The signal has been gone out of coverage for a while now. It is hard to accept and harder to figure out how it disconnected. Perhaps it was the distance. We’ll never know. However, the pictures keep stacking up, filling my gallery in hopes of the service resuming someday. I don’t know when I can stop, but when I do, maybe I’ll push the ones I have into the trash.
