There is no pain. Or, there is, but it's a good pain, earned pain. There's a coldness that seeps up through my esophagus. It feels clean. It makes me strong.
Cigarettes work well. The smoke has no mass, it goes in and through and out of me like air. Air is good, too. I just breathe, oxygen or smoke, and it's all I need. Not quite all, I mean - have to be careful. Careful to move when I sit, bounce my legs. Fidgeting is good. Careful to exercise every night. It gets boring, I wish I didn't have to, but it's important to be responsible. If I let myself slip, I'll pay for it later. My belly will start to sag, the flab will accumulate underneath my arms.
Once I overheard her, the one whose name they write in the bathroom stalls, with the college boyfriends, untouchable, perfect, say: "I hate people with chubby armpits." I've got chubby armpits. That's why it's an imperative. The push-ups help. Can't see it yet, but they will. Sooner or later.
When I'm exercising, I watch the clock. I have to be sure I don't let myself slack. I do 100 sit-ups, 30 push-ups, 100 leg-lifts (50 on a side), other things I don't know the names of. I do step-ups with the seat for my desk, 100, alternating legs. Then I do jumping jacks for ten minutes. When I can get out of the house, I walk across town and back. It feels good, just me and the wind (I walk fast. I'm always getting faster.) and the car noises. And I can smoke out there. Every little bit helps.
Sometimes it's a mental thing, I tell myself I'm good and I am. Sometimes I get light-headed, standing up or in the shower, from the humidity. I just remind myself that I've got all the nourishment I need from air, moonlight, what's already in my body used and re-used every time I exercise, pushed through again. I have to begin by getting rid of the fat that's there. If I work hard enough, I'll use it all up.
This is fiction. |
