I find the way I pursue fitness these days almost too religious. Due to the recent freedom I acquired, of course with so much misery it has caused me, I have now more time in my hand to work on my pecs, abs, glutes, and all those other muscle groups whose other half of what they are normally called in an anatomy class in the university are amputated and replaced with the more fashionable -s and -es suffixes.
I’m at the nearby gym for two hours every night, from 7pm to 9pm. I rest on Sundays. Even God rested on the seventh day. I’m already beginning to see visible effect. I feel pride whenever I see my reflection in the mirror, sweat bestowing my growing shoulders and arms that beautiful glisten one can only achieve after having spent hours pumping iron.
I train regularly because I’d rather fill my free time with something that benefits my health rather than spend it on useless pursuits such as daydreaming or watching online porn. Of course a man my age will never admit having enough free time. One’s worth after all is measure by how much time he spends working and keeping himself productive. And I have not outgrown this fallacy, hence the almost dogged adherence to routine.
But, it seems to me now, that this has nothing to do with routine, or any reason that runs along the same vein. I think that what keeps me from abandoning this routine is because until now I, and I’m not sure if I will ever be, am unreconciled to death.
It’s my hopeless attempt to hold death and its advance party, led by aging, at the gates. One morning, I woke up and saw myself looking intently at the reflection of my yet-to-be washed faced in the mirror. I was surprised me to see myself looking shocked and awed at the sight of fine lines on my forehead. Fine lines were never an issue before. I’d stay in the sun for many hours oblivious of the effects it will have in my skin all because of that golden tan that made me look healthier than I really was.
Suddenly lines became everything. And I am faced with aging and it visceralness.