My eyes were like magnetized by the crease where my belly meets my loin. If that’s not visible to me in the mirror with no clothes on, everything else with my body will be cool. No back pain, not on this day, two after I last went to the gym. And definitely none of that intolerable hip pain.
In this mirror moment, the back pain was like a memory. A rumor of discomfort, which was cool. If I’m over 200 pounds and lax on my fitness regimen, my back can be so tender that a book in my backpack can cause me distress.
This is not that day. At 197 pounds I was 20 percent too soft for the aim of this whole trip. But there is less of me and, if it’s the morning after a good workout and even better choice of eating, there is available a glimpse of my new self’s outline. Eight pounds out from my July 30 birthday goal, I could do minimal stretching and get in a quick mile walk before catching the 4 bus to Vine.
The only pain discernible was The Good Hurt, the sweet agony of challenging one’s muscles.
A calling card for this editorial space would be that I’m exponentially more tolerant of the trans community than I am of man boobs. It’s not a point of pride, but I’m kind of a Nazi about man boobs.
I let the Dash buses pass as I strode down the Echo Park Boulevard hill. The other pain made a surprise appearance, just before the turn onto Sunset. A combo shot between my lower back, hip, and groin.
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