Insecurity

Late last night, some part of me itched (I'm not being discreet; I honestly don't remember where...I was 99% asleep at the time). En route to the itch, my hand was astonished to confront my abdomen extended considerably forward from where it ought to have been.

Perpetually skinny readers will find this horrifying description puzzling and unrelatable. The rest understand.

I might easily have launched into a mental reverie of despair for letting my weight get to this point (I'm ten pounds shy of my all-time peak). But then I recalled that I've been at the gym every day this week (after two months off due to injuries and illness) where I've been working out like a Tasmanian Devil. I've been eating very modestly, as well.

I also recalled all the morbidly obese gym newcomers I'd glimpsed over the years seeming uncomfortable and self-conscious. I always wanted (if I weren't so shy) to reassure such people:

This is not the place for you to be self-conscious. The gym is where you should hold your head high. If I see you in a doughnut shop, that's another thing. But here? You're like a shaggy-headed person in a barber's chair. You're like a muddy-handed person standing over a sink. You're in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right thing. This moment isn't your insecurity; this is your strength.

Thoroughly inoculated, I turned over and contentedly fell back asleep.