On the floor and impatient

An overcast Saturday morning here in Seattle. I'm drinking coffee (Tully's) and sitting on the living room floor with my back against the orange couch. To my left hangs the new artwork I bought off eBay last week. It's a very nice painting from an artist in Canada named Milen. The fall colors are vibrant and the paint is applied thickly, impressionistically, blurring in a way that seems entirely normal.

The world melts; no one notices.

Because it's happening so slowly.

I mentally prepare myself for the gym and yell at Chiana for using her claws on the couch. My clothes are laid out. My hands are cold. My small victory for the week is that I went to the gym every morning at 5:10am, Monday through chilly Thursday (then on Friday night). After the first day it was not such a struggle, but I must always be vigilant. It is too easy to backslide. This is not second nature, or even third. It is seventh to the second power.

My body is shifting under my clothes. I can feel my clavicle again and see the shadow of muscles under my biceps. It is a strange thing, like falling asleep and waking up with an adamantium skeleton. One day it's squishy, the next it's not. And I am just beginning.

The major downside to mental body sculpting is how slow the scale is to catch up. I am tearing my muscles then rebuilding them stronger so that they're heavier but take up less space. Expecting to be immediately rewarded for all this work is normal but it is not realistic. I have to be patient.

And patience is my least developed virtue. Even less developed than my glutes.