neuroses. published.

it's that time again!Five Days a Week

"I'm just not sure I can stop," my friend Brian told me last week. "It's started to take up a lot of my time but I feel like it's something I have to do. Like I don't have a choice."

I started to get worried; it's never good when a friend starts sounding like an addict. "Well," I told him, "if a doctor were to tell you tomorrow that you have to stop or you're going to die, you'd stop, right?"

"Of course," he said.

What were we talking about, here? Crystal? Heroin? Unsafe sex, maybe? No. We were talking about going to the gym, lifting weights with the dedication and crazed diligence of a competitive bodybuilder.

"It sounds so sick, but I feel like the only reason people talk to me is because I look like this," he went on. "It's all about instant gratification. Like, I could either practice my ass off and continue to be met with blank stares when I tell people that I'm a classical bassist, or I could go lift weights and have people falling all over me at the bar. It's obvious which one I'm going to choose."

"But Brian," I told him, "do you really want those people fawning over you? Do you really need to associate with people who have no idea who you are, who only hang out with you because you're muscular?" Even as I made the argument, even as I made my usual what-I've-learned-with-age-is-that-it's-what's-on-the-inside-that-counts speech, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I'm a skinny guy. I'll never know what it's like to walk into a room and know that all eyes are on me. I had visions of Brian walking into a crowded bar--in slow motion, of course--parting the mass of people as he walked by, leaving a trail of furtive glances and jealous stares in his wake. Is this a total exaggeration? Yes. Do I imagine that's what it would be like to look like Brian, 180 pounds of pure muscle? You bet I do.

Everyone I know, all my friends, worry about how they look. We’re either on diets or go to the gym regularly or go running with friends. It’s not because we’re health-conscious; we all seem to be on this quest for the perfect body. And I have to wonder, for what?

Why is it that I go to the gym five days a week? Is it because I got sick of being stick-thin? Is it because I grew up idolizing models and perfect-looking actors? Have I just watched too much porn? Yes. For every feminist who complains that women hold themselves to a completely unattainable ideal, for every young woman that models herself after Mary Kate Olsen or Lindsay Lohan, there's a gay guy somewhere with an open issue of Out magazine asking himself why he can't just look like that guy in the underwear ad. No matter how many hours he puts in at the gym or how many crunches he does or how many desserts he denies himself, he can't get that perfect cut in his lower abs, those bigger arms, that smaller waist.

We are a society based on first impressions, appearances, muscles, tans. And I count myself among its numbers. As much as I talk about the importance of being real, of being a well-rounded human being, I'm as bad as anyone else. What's my main turn-on, when I'm asked? Intelligence. Heart. Wit. What's the first thing I notice about a guy? His face. Followed, in order, by his arms and his ass.

The question, then, is how long can I keep this up? How many years can I diligently lift weights at the gym? At what age will that fantasy I have for myself—the one where I take Brian's place as the guy who demands attention from strangers, who strolls through a crowd, self-assured and self-possessed—stop motivating me? When will I be big enough? Strong enough?

I'm just not sure I can stop.