The Fabulous Life?

I hate working out on Saturdays--not just because I have to do it with Aron, but because the crowd is so remarkably different at the gym. On weekday mornings, the atmosphere is more focused and relaxed. People are there to lift weights, run on the treadmill, or do a stairclimbing machine. They do not have long, loud discussions about what bars they are going to "do tonight." They do not lift some tiny amount of weight, get the tiniest bit of sweat, and then stand and pose for two minutes.

Contrast that with the weekend morning crowd which is full of men and women (not many, but they are there) who are very clearly living beyond their minds in pursuit of some "fabulous" life that exists merely in their heads. (Many of the same people of all ages have that annoying nasal "valley girl" voice that seems to go all the way up and all the way down, but really just stays flat the whole time.)

At the same time, I think it just might not be me that is not getting it. I live a very structured life and I like it...for the most part. I know that five times a week I'd better be lifting some weights by at least 11 unless I'm physically ill. I know that if it's a Tuesday night and I'm not drinking then something is very wrong (and conversely, if it's a Friday night, then somebody must've invited me out or indeed something is very wrong). Perhaps in the midst of talking about minutiae the Fabulous have achieved some sort of zen-like state where inside they are very calm although they are extremely frantic on the exterior?

Then again, it could just be mortality creeping up on them.

If there's an underlying issue that you think I might be avoiding, you might indeed be right. Two years ago, I had two golf ball sized tumors removed from my chest. They were fortunately non-cancerous, but their effect on my psyche and self-image was quite lethal. Before they were removed, I spent years trying to hide myself because I felt like a genetic mistake. In many ways I felt like the Hunchback of Notre Dame: living a hermit's existance because of hatred (perceived or imagined) from the "normal world." The difference without them has been miraculous. I feel a little bit more bolder and a little less crippled by what I think others' think. (The truth is they aren't thinking about you.) Logic aside, I even feel like I am not the same person I was before.

I've also lost a lot of weight over the years and physically, that leaves you with a ring of excess skin around your stomach. I've debated many years over what to do about this. Many people say they don't notice it, but in many ways that's almost irrelevant, since I do. I've hoped that working out regularly would firm things up, but that seems to only go so far. Sometimes, I want to really tear my skin off and just be the literal person inside. Given the debacle over Rock DJ, that would not be such a wise idea, of course. So I'm going to be seeing a surgeon (the same one who operated on my chest) and see what can be done. What terrifies me is not the surgery per se, but what it might represent and my motivations for it. Am I doing this for the same ambiguous construct as the Fabulous? Am I really doing this to put an end to the old me who was clouded by such doubt?

I know I talk a good game, but this is one time where I will have to live with the results if I proceed.