Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, let me explain.
No, let me sum up.
As you know, I haven't been feeling very iron-y lately, when I groan upon being asked to perform some physical chore around the house, I am often met with my wife's question:
" Are you an Ironman, or a noodleman?"
In fact, a better question is whether I'm a man at all. I'm beginning to wonder whether all this triathlon metrosexualness might have given me estrogen poisoning in the brain.
You see, when I look in the mirror, I don't see the non-reality that most men see. I don't imagine a life guard physique complete with a full head of hair, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, ripped abductors, tight buns, and awe-inspiring (*ahem*) "male definition." Indeed, I don't even see reality, a reasonably fit, 41-year-old man with a healthy body mass index who can run 13 miles in the heat without undue stress and who can easily swim a mile on a recovery day. Nope.
I only see the 8 pounds above my peak fitness weight that I imagine is all a gooey spare tire where my waist should be.
I only see the hair and the pasty whiteness of the middle aged office worker and crave a good wax.
I start to weigh myself all too frequently and rejoice in the difference between a fully hydrated 148.5 pounds and a dehydrated 147 pounds.
I wonder whether I need a food journal on fitday.
I wonder if the cake that I ate at the partner's lunch does not "count" because it was not recorded in the food journal.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't want testosterone poisoning, and along with it the risk of inappropriate Speedo moments or too-much-information-too-little-towel-modesty conduct in the locker room. That said, being a girl is too hard for me. I don't know how you do it. I'd like not to see an optical illusion of goo and fatness when I look in the mirror. How about a little reality, for me and all the rest of us, guys and girls?
Hopefully, I'm beginning to feel the end of the psycho triathlete guy-ness. The running is becoming lighter and faster and easier. The swimming is becoming enjoyable again. Unplug the scales and let's go play.
OK, wait. That didn't come out right.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, let me explain.
No, let me sum up.
As you know, I haven't been feeling very iron-y lately, when I groan upon being asked to perform some physical chore around the house, I am often met with my wife's question:
You see, when I look in the mirror, I don't see the non-reality that most men see. I don't imagine a life guard physique complete with a full head of hair, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, ripped abductors, tight buns, and awe-inspiring (*ahem*) "male definition." Indeed, I don't even see reality, a reasonably fit, 41-year-old man with a healthy body mass index who can run 13 miles in the heat without undue stress and who can easily swim a mile on a recovery day. Nope.
Hopefully, I'm beginning to feel the end of the psycho triathlete guy-ness. The running is becoming lighter and faster and easier. The swimming is becoming enjoyable again. Unplug the scales and let's go play.