On weight

I hate the gym.
Absolutely hate it.

I hate the muscle heads who are benching three times my weight. I hate the sculpted housewives who run on the treadmill while watching FOX News. I hate the over-energetic, but always positive music that's pumped overhead. I hate the banal conversation about what body parts they worked tonight that I overhear in the steamroom.

I hate the feeling that I get when I'm too exhausted to do another set of leg curls. I hate the feeling deep in my shoulder when I lift. And I hate squats. I would much rather be outside running or biking, but because it's either dark or allergy season, I'm here.

And I'll continue to work my abs, chest and legs. I'll continue to feel bad when I break down and munch on a bag of organic chips (sea salt and vinegar) while I'm playing on the X-Box. I'll continue to estimate the caloric intake every day, since I know I can easily regain the 60 pounds I lost. I will do this because it's healthy. But I will also do this because, gay, or straight, when you're in your early 30s, you start to pay particularly close attention at that spare tire that just does not whittle down to that sculpted abdominal package you so want. You start to strive to attain that skinny, geekly look because the alternative, the muscular bear is against everything you hold dear. You do it because regardless of your personality, you know that something has to attract you to someone first, and 99 percent of the time, it's physical. Yeah, physical looks are fleeting, but no doubt first impressions mean everything, especially in the youth-obsessed world of gay culture.