I’ve never conducted a poll, but I would bet that at least 90% of us are unhappy with the way we look.
We wish we had fewer wrinkles and scars and probably most commonly better bodies.
The LGBT community is incredibly driven by visual stimuli. Ads promoting everything from spa services to beer feature beautiful men and women in the prime of their lives rocking bodies that rival those in Hollywood. And in the age of new technology, we’re flooded with photos and videos of our dream men or women in poses we would never imagine for ourselves.
It’s easy to appreciate beauty but it’s even easier to be intimidated by it.
Like most, I knew what I found attractive at a young age. The well-defined, muscular and rugged men in my life held my attention. Not only did I desire to physically interact with that specific body-type, I dreamed of one day having a body like that myself.
Throughout high school and college I was very thin, a feature that was only accentuated by my tall stature. When I finally peaked at 6-foot-three-inches in college, I weighed approximately 150 pounds.
Summers were awful. While my friends, baseball teammates and relatives would strip off their shirts to run toward the pool or the creek during those hot months, I made sure I had an excuse for why my T-shirt stayed on. If I did have to go shirtless, I would rarely raise more than my chin above the waterline to conceal my thin frame.
Even the cold winter months in Missouri didn’t bring total comfort. My basketball practices always placed me on the “skins” team. I was more concerned about how my body was perceived than guarding my opponents.
My father, who was always in good shape, knew I was unhappy with my appearance and would constantly try to convince me to lift weights with him in our basement. But I wasn’t interested. When I was in high school, I avoided the weight room in “Jock Hall.” The equipment was intimidating, as was the gym coach, and I was convinced my lack of strength would catch the attention of those well-built classmates I had secretly lusted after throughout my school career.
It wasn’t until well after college that I finally decided to approach fitness differently.
Ten years ago this February I stepped into a small gym across the street from the daily newspaper where I served as news editor. After many very many invitations from the gym’s owner, I took my first serious step inside and made a commitment to spend my lunch hour at the gym for three months. I’ve never regretted that decision.
A decade later, I’m still chasing goals and challenging myself. But I have more confidence now than in any other time of my life. But of course, I’ll never be happy.
That porn-star physique and the sexy bartender build with the broad chest and huge arms always seem just out of reach no matter how well things go at the gym. There’s inborn body dysmorphia in all of us, and we sometimes fail to see our accomplishments. Instead, we focus on the image of our former selves.
It’s human nature to compare ourselves to others. I always wonder if my arms compare to those of the man’s checking out in the next lane at the grocery store or if my chest stands out like that on the guy who just came out of the locker room.
In 2012 I reached my goal weight of 220 pounds. While many work to drop pounds, I’ve worked hard to put on and maintain weight. While it’s true I’m no longer afraid of losing my shirt, I am still challenged by the images of fitness portrayed through advertisements and the media.
But I remind myself that I’m not Mark Wahlberg and I’m certainly not a WWE wrestler.
I am just like everyone else with an ideal physical image I’ll chase until I die.
As we embark on a new year and a fistful of resolutions, we must remember to make changes for ourselves, not anyone else. And as we reach small goals, we find encouragement to go after the larger ones.
Happy New Year!
