Vanity

Breathing and stretching in the seated position, mirrors plentiful, I noticed my shirt. Grey, Army printed on the front in moderately reflective materials, long sleeve. Yoga wasn’t supposed to be about my physique, but catching my reflection in the glass, muscles taunt and exposed, and the thought popped into my mind, Damn I’m good looking.

The synapses jump in my mind and link back to other times I’ve caught myself gazing at myself. It isn’t that I’m vain I used to say, it’s just, I never knew how attractive I am. Then reality slaps me in the face and laughs, what the hell am I doing? I know exactly when all of this started too.

It isn’t that I’m 100% satisfied with my appearance. If I’m not smiling I look almost like a henchman, a grimace of a neutral face glaring out at the world; exaggerated widows peak easily displayed with a short military haircut. And then there’s the midsection – the bane of all I know. And to those who are pleased with their abdominals, I hope metabolism gets you later on. I’m talking stalks you for a few years, and then methodically kills you and your family. Yeah, metabolism’s got my back.

But I’ve been noticing myself, to use a slightly perverse term, since I started becoming confident. The confidence allowed for more embarrassing situations, which in turn allowed for personal improvement. Hence the gym and working out, the bigger confidence, and eventually the ability to do the absurd (or what I’d thought was absurd) and join in step aerobics and yoga classes.

This is what I’ve been doing here in Balad with my free time. Today was supposed to be with Thin Mints and Old White Man, but it was early and I didn’t even feel like getting up. With only false motivation, how am I supposed to rouse someone out of what I pictured to be a perfect slumber? Besides, I had a hard enough time focusing on the movements with myself to look after. Or at.

Incoming Alarms: 1
Gatling Gun Return Fire: 2
(I'll explain this later)