Everything Is Awful Page 4

  Tim, like most gym trainers, had too many muscles, which doesn’t seem like it would be a problem in theory, but in the real world, it’s like looking at a snake swallow a bag of onions. An approximate foot shorter than I was, Tim seemed to compensate for his height by adding thirty pounds of muscle for every inch he felt he lacked, which made him almost as wide as he was tall. Unprompted, he demonstrated the thickness of his chest by raising his fists in front of his face and struggling to make his forearms touch. This display was apparently meant to impress me, but all I could wonder was whether he could comfortably reach his own penis. I can only conclude, based on his abundance of unspent testosterone, that he could not.

  Wasting no further time on verbal introductions, Tim immediately launched into barking orders, which I was expected to wordlessly obey: jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, with no break in between, one after the other, all while Tim screamed what he believed to be encouragements in my face.

  “Push harder,” he yelled through spittle. “We haven’t even gotten started yet!” And yet my muscles were already sending every distress signal they could muster to my brain, shaking wildly and burning hot.

  Sensing my waning energy, Tim continued bleating.

  “Who’s the hottest girl in your class?” he shouted. And my brain, at least the parts of it that weren’t preoccupied with keeping the rest of my body from shutting down entirely, began to whir.

  In normal circumstances, I would’ve had the time and patience to address this question properly. Perhaps I would have mustered the energy to explain to Tim that sometimes boys like putting their penises inside other boys’ penises. Perhaps I could’ve explained that I couldn’t name the hottest girl in my class if you’d paid me a thousand dollars, but I could rank the hottest fifty boys by ten different criteria, including arms, abs, butts, calves, bulges, pecs, hair, jawlines, smiles, and thighs (the top of which in each category respectively, I could’ve easily told him, was Pat, Tom, Pat, Ryan, Steven K., Steven R., Jeremy, Kevin, Pat, and Bradley, Pat being the clear and obvious winner).

  In my distress, however, my brain could muster none of these explanations, and in a panic, between jumping jacks, my lungs straining hard enough to breathe and speak at the same time, I shouted, “Amanda!”

  Tim gave an approving grunt, as if to say, “Ugh, she sounds hot,” based solely on the name that I’d shouted under duress.

  “What’s your favorite part about her?” he continued while I whimpered further.

  “Her butt, I guess,” I said without even thinking about it, my lungs nearly collapsed at this point.

  “Ugh,” Tim grunted again, as if I were describing a juicy steak. “Is it big? Do you like her big, fat ass?”

  “Yes,” I was shouting back at him between jumping jacks. “I love it . . . I love her big, fat ass.”

  He laughed knowingly, as if to say, “I knew it! This is what all guys come in here for. To do jumping jacks for some girl named Amanda and her big fat ass.”

  And content with discovering my secret, Tim let me stop.

  At the end of our session, Tim gave me a pat on the back. “A few more of these sessions, and we’ll have Amanda noticing you in no time.”

  I smiled feebly, and when he walked away, I limped as fast as I could to the door, and never went to that place again.

  • • •

  That summer, despite my heterosexual fiasco with Tim, I still lost thirty pounds. I counted calories. I went down two waist sizes. And yet, I felt no different. I went back to college and gained it all back.

  Then I moved to New York, where something changed. I still ate too much. I still drank too much. After all, New York is a city where you can easily order a slice of chocolate cake at three in the morning (and I have, and I’ll do it again), where you can have groceries delivered directly to your apartment and nobody has to see you putting five packages of chocolate chip cookies into a shopping cart that’s already full of breads and sugar and fat. Indeed, the entire culture of New York City is built upon meeting people for dinner, for drinks, for appetizers. Bodegas are open all night in case the desire for a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream strikes at midnight.

  But New York is also where I learned that being fat does not equal being ashamed. It’s a thin city, that much is true. But it’s also a diverse city that celebrates its differences more than it’s willing to admit. And there I learned that being fat is not a moral judgment. That carrying extra weight does not mean carrying extra baggage. That being fat is not always a choice. That it’s important to acknowledge that men face the pressures of body image just as acutely as women, and that we suffer from the harmful perpetuation of a single stereotype of the perfect, hairless, ab-riddled body with no discernible fat and those V-lines that haunt me in my sleep. It’s where I learned that it’s OK to lust after that stereotype as long as it doesn’t rest in your mind as the only desirable version of manhood. That fat bodies are desirable, too. That chubby Chris Pratt is just as fuckable as ripped Chris Pratt, and probably more so.

  I still have accepting to do. But I can finally say I’m happy being fat. Do I still ogle muscled men? Yes. Do I still have pictures of them pasted to my apartment walls? Yes. Do I know now that a desire for those bodies is not exclusive of my own desirability? Of course. And do I wish I could still fit under the bed? Well, sure. But only because I’m pretty sure I dropped a Twix down there, and I’d really like to find it.

  RULES FOR A TOTALLY HEALTHY AND NOT-AT-ALL-MEDICALLY-CONCERNING LIFESTYLE

  I am, by many accounts, a vision of absolute health. I eat no less than seven meals a day, so I’m constantly bursting with nutrition. I exercised for a whole hour once last year. And I chug a few bottles of wine throughout the week, which is basically the same as juicing, but with even more antioxidants. In fact, my doctor says the wine “probably won’t kill you anytime soon,” which is the closest thing to a medical endorsement I’m getting for my budding alcoholism, and I’ll take it. Alas, nobody’s offered to put me on the cover of Men’s Health, or even the cover of a high-fiber cereal box with a gold medal around my neck, so I’m forced to cement my status as a health icon in my own way.

  Here, a list of my tips for maintaining a strong, healthy, and not-at-all-medically-concerning lifestyle:

  1. Any dessert with fewer calories than ice cream doesn’t actually count as dessert and can be consumed with utter and complete abandon. FroYo is basically water, and can be drunk as such.

  2. Chewy chocolate chip cookies are like celery: you burn off more calories than they’re worth just from the energy you expend by eating them. Truly the only miracle food.

  3. A single waffle with butter and syrup is the most well-balanced and nutritious meal on earth.

  4. Eating a salad before or after eating a piece of cake cancels out the cake. Really, if you eat a salad, you can follow it with literally anything and it’s nutritious. And if you slip in your diet and have too much to eat: follow it with salad and your stomach resets. That’s just nutritional science.

  5. Anything that’s been dropped on the floor is good enough to eat, and anybody who tells you otherwise is weak.

  6. Legally, they can’t stop you from bringing chocolate lava cake into the gym.

  7. Chewing is the body’s way of trying to stop you from swallowing at the speed you really want.

  8. Two pots of coffee a day is a perfectly acceptable way to sustain yourself with enough energy to watch TV without moving.

  9. Eating a whole cake is the same as eating just one piece, as long as you do it in the same amount of time.

  10. Anything you eat as part of a contest doesn’t count as eating. That’s a hobby.

  11. Chocolate milk is God’s kale smoothie.

  12. Bread is like a pillow for your stomach: essential for a good night’s sleep.

  13. Opening the refrigerator door counts as exercise.

  14. Calories don’t count if you can’t see them, which is why you should always cover your food in a
thick layer of ranch dressing.

  15. A bowl of cereal every evening is essential to a good night’s rest, except for Cheerios, which barely count as cereal and are an affront to the entire breakfast community.

  16. If you’re gonna eat an entire package of cookies, it’s best to do it in one sitting so it still technically counts as one serving.

  17. Putting honey in any drink makes it better for you.

  18. If you’re gonna drink a glass of wine, you might as well drink the whole bottle.

  19. Tea from a cup with a saucer underneath always tastes better than tea with no saucer.

  20. A side muffin has the same nutritional benefits as a side salad. It’s on the side, so it doesn’t count.

  21. A nap is the best way to burn off calories because calories are always running around in their sleep.

  ON MY OLD AND FRAGILE BODY, OR I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY EVERYTHING

  Like most chubby gay nerds in Middle America, I was picked last in gym class every single time getting picked last was an option. Honestly, it would have been easier if my P.E. teachers had just announced it outright: “Captains, pick your teammates. And remember, the tubby red one in the glasses gets picked last.” But that would have been too gracious, and a part of me thinks that gym teachers derive great pleasure from watching nature take its predetermined course, like in National Geographic, but instead of an elderly rhinoceros getting left by its herd to die in a river, it’s a fat kid with a limp wrist getting shunted to the outfield.

  Unsurprisingly, gym class was never fun for me or my body. I was big in all the wrong places, my limbs too thick and fleshy to properly coordinate with my brain. The bottoms of my legs were as stubby as my calves. My torso was just wide enough to ensure any foul ball always had an unmissable, plump target. And my big clunky feet moved just slow enough to make certain I’d never evade a direct, violent hit to the face. I was a living embodiment of Newton’s little known Fourth Rule of Motion: “Every kickball in a state of brutal velocity continues in a state of brutal velocity until it applies itself to a gay nerd’s brand-new Ray-Ban eyeglasses.” I’m happy, at the very least, to have done my part for science.

  My body always seemed just out of whack with my brain. When I ran—which I did sparingly, usually in the direction of an ice-cream-truck jingle—I never knew what to do with my arms, so they’d dangle uselessly next to my torso like an ostrich’s scrawny wings, flailing in the wind. I had poor balance, and tipped over easily. And my limbs seemed to grow at a pace that apparently my body hadn’t prepared for.

  I went to the doctor to complain about muscle cramps and aches, in secret hope that he would absolve me from physical activity for the rest of time. Dr. Keith was his name, and he was himself an overly tall, gangly, and balding man. I’d hoped he would take pity on me as a fellow victim of his own body’s apparent desire to outgrow itself. But no. “Growing pains,” he told me. “Perfectly normal for a boy your age whose body is getting bigger.”

  I was ten years old, so I probably just said, “OK, thank you for your counsel, elderly sir.” But I should’ve said it was fucking bullshit, because that’s what growing pains are. Pain is supposed to be the body’s way of telling your brain there’s a problem. But what exactly was the problem? My body was . . . what? Growing too fast? Growing too big? Growing at all? I never really got an answer.

  He did tell me I was flat-footed, which apparently contributed to the aches in my legs and hips. But that’s just more bullshit. Since when are feet too lazy to be in the shape of feet? What hope does the rest of my body have if the things it depends on to stand can’t even do their job properly?

  Growing pains and flat feet aside, my brain and my body still found ways to conspire against one another.

  • • •

  One summer day, in 1995, my aunt Bonnie set up a slip ’n’ slide in her backyard, the kind of water slide that lies flat on the lawn and relies on running water and sheer force of will to propel whoever jumps on it from one end to the other. Of course, ours was not a real Slip’N Slide. My family was much too cheap to invest in store-bought anything, much less store-bought water slides, like the one from Toys “R” Us with the multiracial children on the box, laughing heartily while gliding along their soft, slippery, inflatable Aquatic Wonderland. Instead, my aunt set down two large blue tarps on the hard ground, like we were preparing for heavy construction. She positioned the garden hose on one end, turned it on high to build up a current, and covered it in bath bubble soap for lubrication. Not unexpectedly, soap proved to be ineffective at turning a literal sheet of plastic into a slip ’n’ slide, so she brought out the next logical option, a canister of pure vegetable oil, and covered the tarp in a thin, shiny layer, like a glistening leaf of lettuce.

  I stood back and watched as my cousins, one by one, slid onto the tarp tummy-first and skidded along its surface like greasy chicken cutlets. I was the fattest and least athletic of the family, well known as the one most likely to end up hospitalized for skipping the wrong way. And so, I stood there and watched the others before trying it for myself.

  When I’d finally worked up the courage, I took a running start (or as much of a running start as my bulky legs allowed), leapt as high as my flat feet would take me, and crossed my legs midair like I was sitting down for story time. Why my brain thought this was a logical pose to strike is beyond me. I think I envisioned gliding along the tarp butt-first, and sliding to the end with my hands resting adorably beneath my chin like I was posing for a glamour shot. Perhaps a part of me wanted to take the moment to show off, to use this dumb garbage water slide to show everybody that I could do what they were doing, and then some! Fuck you for always thinking I was the dumpy unathletic family nerd. I can read books and hit this slip ’n’ slide like a champion.

  What happened instead was far from glamorous. The tip of my tailbone came down on the hard ground with a heavy thunk, and every ounce of air in my lungs escaped in one thick howl. I slid lifelessly to the end of the tarp, and lay there motionless. My cousins formed a circle around my limp, ungainly body, not breathing, my eyes staring up at nothing in the sky, while my aunt rushed to blow air in my face. I started breathing eventually. Nothing was broken. I was just an idiot who jumped tailbone-first onto a patch of solid earth. “Why would you do that?” my aunt screamed at me. “What were you thinking?” But I didn’t have an answer. My brain just had it in for my body, I guess.

  Indeed, not even a year later, I started climbing a small bush—a bush! a piece of shrubbery!—during an innocuous game of tag, immediately fell backwards, and broke my left elbow in two. Some say I was pushed. But that’s only because they were trying to find a logical explanation where there wasn’t one. My body didn’t follow the rules of logic, after all. The doctors said I’d need pins in my arm, and frankly, I welcomed them. Anything that replaced my body with machinery seemed like a good idea when my actual flesh was doing nothing besides getting itself into constant trouble.

  A few years later, on the very first day of summer vacation, I was riding a scooter—not a motor scooter, mind you, just a run-of-the-mill, push-it-with-your-flat-foot scooter—and my brain decided it was a good idea to throw the Frisbee mid-glide. So I threw it, immediately tossed myself off balance, tried stopping my fall with a folded fist, and landed on my wrist. I felt my arm crunch beneath my weight.

  “It’s not broken,” my cousin assured me. “I’ve seen a lot of broken bones, and you’re fine.” Never mind that my forearm flopped like jelly when I tried to fix my glasses. But it turned out my cousin was right, in a way. It wasn’t broken, at least not all the way through, and a doctor spent an hour shooting me with numbing agents and twisting the bone until it broke cleanly. “It’ll heal better this way,” he said between twists. But I knew I’d be back again, if not for this, then for something else.

  In fact, I spent almost every summer in various stages of recovery from one recently incurred injury or another. One summer, I stepped on a piece of glass and sliced
open the heel of my foot. Another summer, I stepped on a beehive. Another summer still, I stepped off a curb and somehow sprained my wrist.

  My body would always find a way to betray me.

  Meanwhile, despite my body’s resistance, gym class continued on, growing more complicated and militaristic. Just when I thought I’d mastered the art of evading the kickball, we’d graduate to dodgeball—the most cruel and unusual way to teach children jihadi warfare—and I’d have to learn a whole new set of elusion tactics. Once my wounds healed from dodgeball, we’d level up to basketball (hardened leather is much less forgiving on the flesh), then football (hardened leather, now pointy!), then volleyball (softer ball, way more flailing limbs), then badminton (sports, now with metal weapons!), then tennis (metal weapons, but heavier!), and so on and so forth until I could identify the type of ball walloping me in the face with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back.

  By the time we moved on to track and field, I was in high school, and physical activity became less about breaking the human body, and more about all-out destroying the human spirit. We were introduced to the “pacer test,” a medieval-torture-device-turned-physical-contest in which an audiotape projected a series of ever-quickening beeps as we students were forced to sprint from one side of the gym to the other before the tape chimed next. The number of times you could sprint back and forth without failing to beat the buzzer or succumbing to death was translated into a value applied to your worth in life. And not to brag, but my value clocked in at around three whole times, which statistically meant I was faster than a country turkey, but slower than an angry hippopotamus. I’m not even ashamed to say I ran a twenty-one-minute mile in ninth grade, and to this day it remains the fastest I’ve ever moved.

  Perhaps gym was simply the educational system’s way of pushing both our bodies and minds to new extremes. Perhaps that’s why my body has always been so aggressively frail, because I never tried hard enough to make it stronger. But I always preferred to treat my body like a set of fine china: too fancy and delicate to use (unless the pope is in town).