35 lb dumbbells drop from my un-calloused fingers but their phantom sting remains. They leave a metallic pungency, a smell so synthetic yet so emblematic of masculinity — what else is more natural in this world? I gaze in physical exhaustion at the floor-to-ceiling-length mirror in front of me. A crowd moves around my reflection, blurring into appendages of different skin hues, sizes, musculature. There was an undeniable sense of purpose in this place, a collective aspiration towards a better version of ourselves, a more loveable version of ourselves.

All this time I told myself that I go to gym as a habit of health — but I was wrong, Ma. I have been deceitful to you, but how could you understand why? Because the thing about beauty is that it’s only beautiful outside of itself. Because I am but a twink who wants to become a twunk. Because what if the body, at its best, is only longing for body? A sick, toned, sexy, twunk body.

I look at me, or rather, the image of me — face so angular and tastefully tanned, lips so full, eyes so tastefully not full, hair freshly permed. The minutes melted away like sand slipping through my fingers, and I marveled at how effortlessly the present gave way to the future, how each moment was both a gift and a burden. In this place of sweat and exertion, and I can’t help but think… I look so beautiful in Pottruck Student Fitness Center this Sunday morning. 

Each time my hands hurt me, they become more mine. And as I pump iron, inspired by the labors of my ancestors in the Orient, I allow myself to admire my reflection. Because a sick gym pump without a mirror is like a song without ears.