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In pursuing fitness, you’re pursuing knowledge of your body machine, comfort in your skin, and a natural confidence in your interaction with the world that will pull your shoulders back and allow you to expose your chest, a PRIME symbol of “shit’s cool.” I’m not telling you to become a ’roided-up monster, but I believe that everyone deserves a little “shit’s cool” in their life.

WHY???

“What is this jock bullshit? Fitness? Body? Why are you rolling this wheelbarrow full of feces at me? Am I supposed to buy into this, you asshat? And when did I become so aggressively inquisitive??” I THOUGHT ALL OF THESE THINGS, TOO. For years, physical fitness equaled “dudes.” Dudes lived for sports. Dudes pushed people around. Dudes chestbumped during cheerleader threesomes. Dudes were barely literate and could not see the inherent value in a Labor Day Twilight Zone marathon. Here is a not atypical exchange:

Me: . . . So when Burgess Meredith emerges from the bank vault to a post-apocalyptic world and shatters his glasses, he is unable to consume the books that were his only passion, therefore imprisoning him in irony . . .

Dude: I see. [punching starts]

Naturally it was my instinct to reject all of their habits and behaviors. I had become proud of being out of shape. “Yeah! It’s a choice I’m makin’!” I’d say, as the dough piled on around me like an inner tube that was being custom fitted for me. “I don’t NEED their shitty ways. I gots beer and late-night cheeseburgers.” I can’t tell you how many times in my twenties I would order a pizza after coming home from bars, eat half of it, pass out, and then adopt the rest for my breakfast the next “morning” (at 2:00 p.m.).

Say, that’s all well and good for your twenties because your body is much more Wolverine-like up to that point. Guess what happens in your thirties? Your mutant X-Men gene shuts off and your body starts expressing the horrible things you’re doing to it. I’m all for everyone being happy with who they are and stuff, but that comfort level diminishes exponentially as you age into worse and worse shape. I once heard comedienne/actress/loud-talking gadabout Mo’Nique (I still don’t understand the apostrophe’s role in making that name function) say something along the lines of, “All those skinny bitches can go to hell. I’m fat and proud. I’m comfortable with who I am!” I agree! You should like yourself for yourself. If you’re overweight and you’re happy, then that is what’s most important. “There’s nothing more attractive,” my brilliant writer pal Brad Meltzer once said, “than someone who’s comfortable in their own skin.” But if you are seriously overweight, just make sure you really understand the health risks as you age. Let’s check in again when you’re fifty, sixty years old (if you’re lucky and don’t drop dead of heart failure first) and your mobility is greatly decreased because of poor circulation, ankle strain, or—gods forbid—a diabetic leg amputation. How comfortable might that be? You shouldn’t have to be model-skinny. In fact, models are fucking freaks—anomalies, really—that shouldn’t define the image ideal. You should, however, be healthy and trim enough that you can enjoy the flexibility to make it to the bathroom by yourself with both of your natural feet when you’re older.

Also I take umbrage with the concept of “being content with oneself.” It’s bullshit. You should be HAPPY with yourself. Contentment is a sedentary state. Taking care of your body is the best way to express that, not filling your mitts with a wad of cupcakes and saying, “This is who I aaaaaam!” while spitting out crumbs and jimmies. It’s not who you am. You am a good person who deserves to feel good in the long term. Taking care of yourself will accomplish this. And you don’t really even have to do this all of the time! You can do it some of the time and still come out ahead! You don’t have to eat like a triathlete unless you want to completely transform yourself. You can make slight improvements and reap benefits.