Eye of the Beholder

Funny thing, my body. Intellectually I know it’s the same one I had yesterday, and the day before that, but, unless Stephanie has replaced the bathroom mirrors with some discarded by the local funhouse, something must be up.

I suppose it might just be in my mind - but no. Just yesterday I stepped out of the shower to witness what seemed like the physique of an Olympic swimmer. True, I had scored a hat trick in my ball hockey game the evening before, but I really don’t think that had anything to do with my assessment. Now, this morning, I’ve emerged from the same shower to be met with something that looks like a cross between Tobey Maguire and my father. My pecs look suddenly flat, my biceps punctured, my thighs deflated. Okay, I admit I’m still pretty ticked off about that rejection letter I received yesterday — I think the editor must not have understood the story’s subtext — but what does that have to do with anything? And why am I even thinking about it right now?

More important, why in the name of Donald Trump does my hair look so dumb? Yesterday it was like McDreamy’s on Grey’s Anatomy, all thick and wavy. Today it looks like roadkill. And what’s with my skin? Is it always this pasty? Yesterday I had that nice athletic glow going after finishing the 102 pushups, themselves inspired by the hat trick. Today I look as though I couldn’t press a hamster.

Are my eyes crooked? No — looks like one’s just a bit sleepier than the other this morning. I did toss and turn most of the night (thanks to that nightmare about an army of giant rejection letters marching toward me), so maybe it’s no surprise I look like something the cat dragged in. We don’t have a cat, of course — but that’s beside the point. Yesterday morning (when I was thinking about the third of the three goals, head fake to the short side, wrist shot over the glove — nice), my eyes had a ... well, a twinkle, to be honest. Now the one on the left is barely at half-mast. I look like an exercise in Cubism.

Has my big toe always been this big? That’s not a toe, it’s a zeppelin. And since when are my feet so bony?

Yesterday they looked great, if I do say so myself, as did my legs — fast, lean, toned. Today, those legs look as substantial as pipe cleaners. While I was sleeping, they must have been switched with the legs of some 8-year-old now running around wondering why there are long hirsute adult legs supporting his upper half.

As I finish toweling off, Steph comes into the bathroom, half-dressed, and glances in the mirror. She looks fantastically sexy. As I open my mouth to tell her how proud I am to have selected so fine a trophy wife, she says, “God, I’m so gross.”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Do I always look this fat?”

Sigh. It must be hard to be a girl. Though I’d never say it out loud, inside I know the only reason for her bizarre self-perception this morning is the third slice of pizza she had last night. Doesn’t she realize her hummingbird-sized body looks the same — to others, at least — from one day to the next, even if her own vision of it is skewed? Sometimes I’m glad I’m a man. We may be sports-obsessed, incurable mama’s boys, and sometimes harder to open up than a rusted deadbolt, but at least we’re rational about things.

I exit the bathroom — since nothing I can say to her is going to help — and slip on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wonder what ever persuaded me to consider this an attractive style on myself. I look like a reject from the 1950s. I might as well wear floods and a jacket that says The Fonz is my hero.

Steph comes into the bedroom and smiles. “You’re so cute in your little look,” she says. Love is blind, I guess.

Turning toward the closet, she sees her reflection and shakes her head, despondent. She begins patting around her midsection for imaginary flesh.

Silently I remember yesterday morning, and the pleased reaction she had looking in the mirror after her shower. Though she didn’t realize it, I knew the reason for her confidence and pleasure: the 45 minutes she’d done on the elliptical trainer the prior evening.

She catches me grinning. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I love you.”

Women.

Beyond Fitness 

Back to article listing

I.J. Schecter
43 Park Hill Road
Toronto, ON M6C 3N2
(416) 803-9847

© I.J. Schecter 2003