Working Out Finally Paying Dividends?

Lately I've felt like I've gotten fitter. After dialing back on the portions during dinner, shoveling on this snow we've had, and some semi-regular trips to the community center, I feel like my stomach is getting smaller. (The appetite-deadening effects from all the caffeine I've been consuming probably helps, too.)

Better yet, I guess, is that I think I'm developing some very, very tiny muscles in my arms. That comes with trying to lift every time I go to the gym. It's pathetic if you see me do it on this all-in-one Gold's Gym machine; I either try and work out my obliques by pulling one of the handles across my body, or I sit down and do these push-out exercises -- man, I don't know what the fuck you call them. Those particular sets, the ones where I work on my arms, I have to bring the system down to its smallest weight possible, ten pounds.

The fitness center is lined with full-length windows that have a view of the ice rink down below. I swear, whenever people, especially high school kids watching pick-up games on the ice, pass by on the hall just outside and see me struggle and strain to push these handles out, and then see I have it set to 10 lbs., they do all they can to get out of my line of sight and laughing their asses off without running.

You know, I use to have this huge phobia about getting big arms. Puberty was a frightening time for me. Not only was I getting hair on my dick -- maybe I'll talk about that some time -- but I was obsessed with how my arms were growing in thickness. I didn't work out, so I didn't know why this was happening to me, and I wanted it to stop, but I didn't know how. All I could do was measure the width of each arms, just past the elbow -- constantly, incessantly, sometimes several times a day -- by making a circle with my thumb and middle finger. If I could touch them together, I breathed a sigh of relief. If not, I felt like I was losing yet another piece of my childhood, and my life was crashing down around me.

During this period in my life when measuring my arms was the most important task I had to perform each and every day, I was usually able to complete this circle around my left bicep, but eventually, I was no longer able to do it around my right. I got obsessed over this particular change in my body; every single second all I could think was, "What the hell is happening to me?? I can't ... accept this!!" Eventually I think I rationalized this incongruity by believing that because I write with my right hand, my right arm is naturally bigger. That may very well be true. But I know that my adolescent self knew, deep down inside, that however correct that may be, it still was unacceptable.

Bad memories, my friends. How did I grow out of it? Well, I'd rather build muscle than get fat, now that I'm older. But you know what? I don't think I have. I think I just got my mind off of checking the girth of my arms by worrying about other stuff.