Dearest Rachel –
Last night I went to bed early; before ten, so I could wake up a little after five and get to the gym more or less when it opened. I didn’t bother to shower yesterday, so I figured I’d get my second workout of the week in before taking one this morning. I even completely skipped any second meal after VBS last night; all I ate was a takeout sandwich and some chips. Oh, and a chocolate bar, but that was nothing compared to my backsliding on Wednesday.
I’m doing everything right now, aren’t I? So why is it that, when I open my eyes at five-fifteen, I really don’t want to get up? Moreover, once I do get up, pad over to the washroom and step on the scale, what does it read?
Two fifty. I’m not only back where I started, I’m back at the borderline.
Technically, I’m right there; I haven’t crossed it. But the fact that the middle number is back to being a five rather than a four is bad enough. A pound or two is hardly going to make a difference in how I look or feel – the difference is less than one percent of my total, after all, although over the past two days, difference between zenith and nadir has been more like two percent – but it’s the psychological effect that number has.
And what, you may ask, is that psychological effect? Does it spur me on to the gym, determined to thwart the rising tide of fat from overwhelming me? After all, I’m awake at this hour, with little better to do than relate my feelings about it all to you; surely, I might as well put the time to good use, especially since I’ve made such a point of doing this in the first place.
Hardly. If anything, it leaves me wondering about the point of all this self-denial. An hour of indulgence wiping out the hard work of the day, I understand and accept. But eating minimally for an entire day, without cheating, and I still lose ground? That doesn’t seem fair.
Besides, why am I doing this? Lars tells me it ought to be for my own good, rather than solely trying to get Megumi’s attention, assuming she exists, but you and I know better. If I were to do what I wanted, what I thought was best for myself, in terms of enjoying life, I wouldn’t be putting myself through any of this. I’d be eating what I wanted, as much as I wanted, and not caring about what others thought about it.
And while I’m on that subject, why am I so concerned about Megumi, and what kind of man, physically, she wants? If I’m not good enough for her as I am, then maybe she’s not Megumi, after all. Either way, why am I doing all this for her benefit, when she’s going to simply expect that of me, and not be appreciative of what I’m going through, here?
***
Somewhere in my frontal lobe, there’s a tiny conference room, probably behind the optic nerve (because every office needs to have a few windows). There, my editing team is going at it hammer and tongs.
“I’m telling you, we’ve gotta get him to tone it down! Why, he practically flipped off Megumi back there! Suppose she reads this! What’s she gonna think?!”
“Geez, calm down, Eddie…”
“…wait… ‘Eddie’?”
“As in ‘editor.’”
The first guy pounds the conference room table. “We’re all editors here!”
“Oh, yeah… well, never mind. Look, he’s just frustrated that all the effort he’s putting into this isn’t getting the results he wants. These are his emotions at the moment – very raw and heartfelt. I don’t think they need to be tempered at all; as a matter of fact, most people going through this experience this sort of thing. They’ll be able to relate to it.
“Besides, he’s got a point; if she sees this, and takes offense to his frustration at the situation – even if he is lashing out a bit at her for it, since he sees her as the reason he’s doing it – she’s probably too shallow to be ‘life partner’ material in the first place.”
“But he needs to attract her ‘in the first place,’ and looks are the first line of offense in that battle! And, may I remind you, this bitterness isn’t a good look.”
“Yes, yes… one doesn’t judge a book by its cover, but it’s often the cover that gets you to pick it up at all. Don’t worry; he may complain, but he’s still going to go put in the work. At least for now. As for the bitterness, let’s see what kind of results he gets. Maybe he settles down as the story proceeds.”
“Yeah, okay… it can’t be any lamer than this whole internal monologue routine.”
“Definitely not.”
***
For what it’s worth, I’m not the only one dealing with this malaise of “I really don’t wanna be here doing this.” I notice a fellow in a grey hoodie in front of my as I climb the stairs – it’s hard not to as, even at my pace, I nearly overtake him, he’s going so slowly. His head is down as he all but drags himself up to the equipment room, where the gentleman behind the front desk greets him by name (“Ernie,” I think it was).
I don’t get the same courtesy, but in fairness, I haven’t been coming for long enough – and certainly not regularly enough, in terms of either time or day – to receive that kind of recognition. Still, I get a “how ya doin’” from the fellow, to which I can’t help but respond.
“I think I feel like that guy looks,” I say, indicating ‘Ernie,’ who is now just out of earshot, headed into the locker room. “Trudging the trudge.”
It’s not an original thought from me; I used to see it on a bumper sticker on a certain car as I would drive to the old office in Elk Grove, back in the nineties; evidently, whoever drove that old red car had a similar commute to mine at the time. But it’s not as if such an attitude was exclusive to that day and age. Clearly, it’s always been – and will always be – a thing.
The desk clerk grins slightly as he lets me in; he may be bright and chipper this early in the morning, but he’s on a different work schedule, and is probably used to it. He also seems used to those sorts of hangdog expressions of those coming here – even regulars like ‘Ernie.’
***
The weird thing is, once I’m on the equipment, I’m still trying to put everything I can into it. I guess it’s the whole ‘as long as I’m here, I’ve got to make it worth it’ attitude. Indeed, I find myself pushing myself more than usual – two kilometers rowing, instead of just a mile; ten miles rather than eight cycling, and on a harder course with taller hills than usual; and a half-mile uphill before I start to reduce the incline. I don’t know if it’s me trying to work that many more calories off, or if it’s just penance for my prior indulgence or attitude.
But in a little more than an hour, I’ve burned off seven hundred calories. Not that it should make all that much difference, since it’s supposed to take 3,500 calories to burn off a pound of fat. But I’m not going to be able to go at this for five hours just to lose a single pound; I’ll just have to settle for this, and hope that a little more effort will eventually pay off.
I go home, and prepare myself to shower and begin the day in earnest. But before I do, I figure I might as well check to see what changes, if any, might have been wrought:
Still, I guess this is as close to a happy ending as my editors can hope for for now. So for now, keep an eye on me (and Megumi, for that matter, if you happen to know who she may be). We’re going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 