my best wishes to all, even the haters and losers, on this special date, 1/18 in two American time zones for five more minutes

this guy was like Carl from Up if he stayed evil

Something I believe very strongly is that I will never let those who I hate know that I doubt them. I will never disrespect them to their face, question their talents, or point out their shortcomings. This does not mean I’ll be overly nice to them; I will not misguide them as to the nature of our relationship or pretend to be a friend. There is no need, if you, reader, can only recall pleasant interactions between us, to think that I might be praying on your downfall. However, if there is some form of explicit hostility between us, it will never take the form of me expressing to you directly the areas where you lack or what I believe you to be incapable of achieving. Because one’s haters are their motivators, and I will not push those I dislike towards success.

Which is why I was surprised by an unpleasant interaction I went through at the gym last Friday. To quickly address the elephant in the room: yes, reader, I was at the gym. As you visualize, please include the image of me in a sultry tank top and flirty basketball shorts, with bulging arms and throbbing calves: a body part you didn’t even know, until this moment, could throb. This is how I look, as I write to you from my bed right now, wearing the gains I attribute to embarking on the most consistent exercise routine I’ve ever ascribed to. I’ve gone 7 days total in the last 5 months. 

Anyway, at the gym last Friday, a gangly man of advanced age wearing a sulfur colored USA T-Shirt walked by my stationary bike. Seeing me at work, fighting to reach the one mile mark at level 5 resistance, he stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, “Oh! Nice legs man, very macho!” Then laughed as if we were close friends, and smacked my right arm as if to acknowledge the deep, fraternal bond between us. In fact, I was unaware of his existence on God’s unforgiving planet Earth merely one single minute ago.

I realized immediately, with a thought that makes the generational divide between him and I even more apparent, that this would make for excellent content. I began mentally drafting the TikTok I would later film. But after the rush of a unique life experience left my body with the last beads of my sweat, I was struck with an immense sense of shame. I’ve never been a very athletic or physically imposing man, as you can likely tell by my affinity for writing newsletters on substack. And I live in Los Angeles, where the stereotypes don’t always hold, but when they do, they hold 400 pounds above their head and bench it 20 times in a row. 

I’ve probably been insecure about my body since I was around 8 years old. I remember standing in the doorway to my living room and my favorite family member gave me a hug. They commented that I felt a little more round around the hips than I had the last time they’d seen me. From then on, I was a little bit of a different person. At the time, I remember mourning a past, slimmer version of me, which is a ridiculous thing to be doing at recess.

i can’t tell if this stock photo is right wing propaganda

I don’t wish to indulge in describing the manifestation of my specific insecurities. I think that feeling is so obvious that it would feel gratuitous to take you through my “journey” with it. I also recognize that not indulging also maintains its confinement to the nasty parts of my own head. I guess this particular shame is so universal that it feels like a secret. 

An appropriate reaction to a moment of critique could be to turn it into fuel. I am familiar with the success stories of those who achieved while motivated by retribution, even just the desire to be witnessed on top after hardships. I wish everything bad that’s ever happened could be equivalently turned on its head. I wish that for anyone I’ve ever had love for. But I don’t think that’s even a little bit possible at all. That’s the great motivation for not doing shitty things: ultimately, they can’t be undone. Maybe giving enemies my critiques won’t motivate them, maybe they’ll just feel sad. 

I don’t really care to imagine a version of me 999 miles into the future where I don’t have my hips. I’ve had them since I was eight years old, and I don’t want to mourn him. I also see no reason to laugh my insecurities away with a slap on the arm, they’re really not that funny. Yet I make the TikTok, and I ride the bike. And I do it for myself mostly, only myself sometimes, but sometimes for the guy in the piss colored USA T-Shirt, and for my favorite relative who isn’t really my favorite anymore; sometimes for the friends I like to play sports with, who I laugh with on the beach, and for all the people who have been nice to me when I was naked, as I come to you now. Imagine me jacked tho.