Tonight's Poet Corner: Regimen

Regimen
by Belinda Roddie

How many times have I gone to the gym,
slammed my worn out sneakers onto an elliptical
trainer, spun my knees up and down like I'm
a meat machine, focusing my eyes on my
own reflection in the window, waiting for

the thirty minutes to end, waiting halfway
for the adrenaline to kick in, waiting until
the heat has painted my face red and white
like a porcelain doll going mad for rouge
and blush? How many times have I strained

the inside of my thighs from a leg press, bent
steel in my own limbs so I could see the divots
in my calves, made it difficult to breathe
because the cramp in my abdomen is like the bar
of a roller coaster seat pinned down too hard
against my diaphragm? How many times have I let

the angsty rock music I listened to when I was younger
drive my resolve to at least not get any bigger than
the two hundred pounds I carry with me on a daily
basis, even though no one correctly guesses the
number that builds the anatomy of me? I swear,

the tunes are moody while I bruise myself on
a bench - Linkin Park, Three Days Grace soothe
me before I turn on the epic Irish metal ballads (yes,
that's a thing, and I love it). It's all rhythmic contusions
as I push my body through the ringer, hoping to
be chiseled out of marble instead of mud. It's all

anthems of agony while I physically subject
myself to more agony, and when the agony's over,
I celebrate with a beer. I celebrate with a whiskey.
I celebrate with a sandwich and a candy bar and
maybe even some broccoli. I celebrate the fact
that I publicly humiliated myself in front of two
dozen buff bros, though to be fair, their grunting
and growling and bestial bellowing aren't exactly
winners, either. I celebrate the idea of self-improvement,

of maintaining my weight instead of gaining, of
picking the quotation marks off the word "fit"
with my teeth, chewing on them, spitting them
out in shards before they shred my intestines
so I can't even digest the bile anymore. So I can't
even taste the bile anymore. So I can't even taste

the burning anymore, and I swear to God, I'd
love to be a superhero. I'd love to be as ripped
and powerful as a caped crusader, yet here I am,
packing flab like I'm saving it for the winter. I know
there's a lot of me to love, but I wish the lot of me
was made of stronger stuff. I can't expect to be
smaller than my ribs allow me to. I can't rely on
the hikes I take through redwood mazes, counting

banana slugs and watching how slowly they move
to inspire me. I can only do so much. I can only
ache so much. It's frustrating how I ache so much.
No screaming match with a back-up band can
nurture the urge. I hate myself. I hate myself. I
hate myself. And yet I love myself enough to do
something about how much I hate myself. How many

times do I have to remind the voices in my head
that heroes don't need to be muscular to save people?
I won't let myself go to waste for the cover of a
magazine. I'll keep the divots in my legs, scale
a ridge and pretend that the sunset I find at the
top is just for me. I'll do what I can. I'll towel
the sweat off my shoulders like I was dipped in it.
The clinking of weights and somber hums of

treadmills add to the headphone symphony. I'm
fine pacing myself like this, for now. Except maybe
I'll do one more thing: I'll get myself a sturdier pair
of shoes, so I can tackle the incline I've set for myself
a little better. And I'll smile at my reflection in the
window before the adrenaline zaps my system again.