Muscle Wanted. Inquire Within.

Over the weekend someone I am connected to on Facebook posted photos of a gathering they had in Central Park. It was a group of half naked men, all muscled and sculpted, laughing and lounging and playing twister and having a blast. It was like a mash-up of The Avengers and an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. But as ridiculous as twenty guys shirtless and peacocking in Central Park looked, I instantly wanted to be a part of their group.

I thought: Why don’t I have a group of friends who invite me to picnic with them shirtless in the Park? Why don’t I have muscle men asking me to be part of their human pyramid? [yes, they really did a human pyramid in Central Park]  

As is common with people that you connect with on Facebook, I’ve actually met in person these guys from the pectoral picnic. When they met me they could have very easily said “Hey, you should come hang with me and my friends in Central Park! We get together and take our shirts off and have a great time!” But they didn’t.

Which of course leads me to believe that I’m not good enough. That I’m not cute enough for their shirtless Twister. That I’m not muscled enough to participate in their Cirque du Soleil.

Which of course then leads me to feel like I’m wasting my time in the gym (even though I know that isn’t true). I have spent countless hours of work and thousands of dollars in various treatments (personal training, acupuncture, chiropractor, therapeutic massage), all to help fix my various injuries and get my body in the best shape it can be. And though I feel my body is better now than it was 20 years ago, when I see photos of guys with six-pack abs and pumped up pectorals, things I don’t have yet, things that seem to constantly elude me despite the immense time and effort I put in, I am left feeling like my sub par physique is disqualifying me from events. I am left feeling like I am not enough. I am perpetually the 155lbs teenager wearing overly baggy clothes, trying to hide himself from the world.

Which of course then leads to me to despise the gay version of Mean Girls. I look at them and say they must be a group of absolute and utter jerks. How could they not want someone as charming and attractive as me to be part of their reindeer games? The only possibility is that they are conceited and ignorant and elitist. But if they’re the jerks, then why are they the ones having fun hanging out in large groups in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon while I am alone taking solitary walks along the Hudson?

Which of course leads to me to wonder if people don’t want to hang around me because I don’t drink.

Which of course leads me to wonder if that’s why I haven’t met a boyfriend.

Which of course leads me to continue wondering round and round in circles about everything that I’m doing that isn’t bringing me the results I want in my life and what I can and can’t do to change that.

So then what? I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole and landed at the bottom and I’m covered in dirt and I have to make a choice. And it’s always the same choice: I pick myself up, dust myself off and climb back out of the hole that I threw myself down, remembering what got me there in the first place and reminding myself to not let it happen again. Practice makes perfect, so maybe I’ll be able to jump over the hole next time something starts my ego flailing.

I unfollowed Cirque du So-Gay. To quote Lisa Kudrow from ‘The Comeback’: “I don’t wanna SEE that!”

FYI, I’m starting my own shirtless picnics in the Park. Muscled or not. Come one come all. My picnics do not discriminate.