My Uncle Brian recently tried to describe someone to my father. “He was a tall slender guy, like Michael.” Michael is me.
“Brian, when was the last time you saw Michael?”
“Maybe a year and a half ago . . . why?”
“Why?! Brian, he’s like Arnold Schwarzenegger! He’s busting out of his shirts!’”
I felt my face turn red when my father related this conversation to me. Part of me was pleased—I work hard at the gym. Another part of me, a part I keep hidden, knew I had so much further to go—and that was why I blushed, not because of the compliment. It’s that second part, the secret part, throbbing constantly under everything else, that I want to talk about. The incessant drumbeat inside me that calls out for more, that animates my endeavors at the gym. It feels like an unseemly thing I’d do best to hide. It is a desire that I have hidden, or downplayed, or dressed up in respectable guises.
Well. Time to come out of the closet.