I'm out of shape. For a guy with next to no body fat, this is a serious problem - from health issues to generally not falling into a depressive state when I watch action films. The phrase "skin and bones" is really pretty apt - it really seems like I have nothing beyond those - well, ok, hair too (more on that a bit down). But also I smoke, so in general I look like a skeleton that's been dipped in paint that wheezes during jogs.
I've stuck with it enough to discover that - addictive personality aside - the body image thing really bothers me. Sure, I want to be healthy, but I also think there's a problem with how I currently am. But, really, there's no reason for me to feel this way. I don't take in as much visual media as the average Statie, I'm not trying to attract a mate/partner/warm-body-to-wake-up-next-to. It's not insecurity, at least, it's not the normal insecurity. I'd want to pin it on being afraid of how I'll look when the EMT arrive and find me on the couch, but as I'll be dead, I doubt I'd really care.
Part of it, I know, is the fact that I now work in an office, sitting down all day, and my crippling desire to sleep once I get home - having spent an exhausting day of...dealing with people...from the "comfort" of my chair. But looking at my co-workers, I have a dread of what can easily become my repertoire of comments (aches, pains, and dieting to relieve said aches and pains and "You know, really start living" - actual quote for a forty-three year old in regards to their joining Weight Watchers).
All fine and well, really - and I've been able to stick to my plan about four to six days a week. And I honestly do feel better, both in general and about myself - although that may just be the endorphins talking.
The thing that I cannot control is my hairline, which has decided to enter a war of attrition with my scalp. And since follicle revanchists don't happen, I'm a bit stuck on this count. My hair was one of those things people always commented on - from family members to friends of the family, to girls I was courting. It was the one thing I knew wouldn't disappoint.
Now, though, I have have the creeping suspicion that I can measure the distance lost as a solid centimeter, maybe two, and it's only a matter of time until I have the dreaded "geographical patterns" - with a tiny grove of hair forming Australia, and the Asian subcontinent in a horseshoe around the side with the might pacific of a chrome-dome filling in the rest.
I shouldn't worry about this, but I do. I like my hair, and I never obsessed about it until I got the office job and realized that I had no hope of ever showing up to work with the beginnings of a bear ever again - those days were gone, and stylistic blandness is hear to stay.
So what can I do? My evil plan for coping with it is, once the geography settles in, I'm going to grow a goatee and Fu-Manchu mustache. Then I'm going to shave me. Everything but the properly started facial hair and the eyebrows. The facial hair I'll try to cultivate into the long and wispy style, so that I'll look something like a Celtic Dr. Lao.
Which I much prefer to look like a midget version of George "The Animal" Steele.
I've stuck with it enough to discover that - addictive personality aside - the body image thing really bothers me. Sure, I want to be healthy, but I also think there's a problem with how I currently am. But, really, there's no reason for me to feel this way. I don't take in as much visual media as the average Statie, I'm not trying to attract a mate/partner/warm-body-to-wake-up-next-to. It's not insecurity, at least, it's not the normal insecurity. I'd want to pin it on being afraid of how I'll look when the EMT arrive and find me on the couch, but as I'll be dead, I doubt I'd really care.
Part of it, I know, is the fact that I now work in an office, sitting down all day, and my crippling desire to sleep once I get home - having spent an exhausting day of...dealing with people...from the "comfort" of my chair. But looking at my co-workers, I have a dread of what can easily become my repertoire of comments (aches, pains, and dieting to relieve said aches and pains and "You know, really start living" - actual quote for a forty-three year old in regards to their joining Weight Watchers).
All fine and well, really - and I've been able to stick to my plan about four to six days a week. And I honestly do feel better, both in general and about myself - although that may just be the endorphins talking.
The thing that I cannot control is my hairline, which has decided to enter a war of attrition with my scalp. And since follicle revanchists don't happen, I'm a bit stuck on this count. My hair was one of those things people always commented on - from family members to friends of the family, to girls I was courting. It was the one thing I knew wouldn't disappoint.
Now, though, I have have the creeping suspicion that I can measure the distance lost as a solid centimeter, maybe two, and it's only a matter of time until I have the dreaded "geographical patterns" - with a tiny grove of hair forming Australia, and the Asian subcontinent in a horseshoe around the side with the might pacific of a chrome-dome filling in the rest.
I shouldn't worry about this, but I do. I like my hair, and I never obsessed about it until I got the office job and realized that I had no hope of ever showing up to work with the beginnings of a bear ever again - those days were gone, and stylistic blandness is hear to stay.
So what can I do? My evil plan for coping with it is, once the geography settles in, I'm going to grow a goatee and Fu-Manchu mustache. Then I'm going to shave me. Everything but the properly started facial hair and the eyebrows. The facial hair I'll try to cultivate into the long and wispy style, so that I'll look something like a Celtic Dr. Lao.
Which I much prefer to look like a midget version of George "The Animal" Steele.
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