I feel good about my appearance depending on the day. I see around me, and in magazines, also on the television, the way I want to look. The calendar on the ledge that runs the length of my bedroom states, “52 weeks… make ‘em count.” On the calendar is a man that has I believe, reached about as close to perfection, physically, as possible in this life. Despite the people I trust the most telling me I look good and that I don’t need to worry, I don’t see what they supposedly see. I do not believe that it is a disorder to not be satisfied completely with your present physical appearance. In fact, I believe that it is what drives one to continue on, diligently, towards perfection. The problem is that that perfection regrettably seems to never come.
It has been a long road for me to where I now am. Many people have it so easy with their fast metabolisms and inherited genes. I see the family of my father’s brother. They all have the desired body. They didn’t have to do anything except be born. The rest of us have to struggle day to day to be something that we may just not have in the cards. If you’re dealt two spades in a game of poker, a Jack and a Queen, and the rest are not needed for a royal flush, it is near impossible to complete your hand with a ten, king and ace of spades. It just doesn’t happen, though perhaps in the movies.
To be the way I want to be is a competition that will be lifelong. It has to be a lifelong goal. My appearance and self image are dictated by the object reflecting my reflection back into my line of sight. It varies with every mirror, window and glass door. I hope I see myself a certain way, and sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. For now, every day I see my calendar which continually reminds me that I have 52 weeks and that I can make them count. It is up to me to make them count. I think I can, I hope I can, I believe I can, “make ‘em count!”