Sunday morning at the gym. Eminem is screaming in my ear but I’m still not entirely awake. The only people here are young men who look like Leonidas and old women who look like Gandalf. I take a seat at an empty bench after I grab my weights and stare at my reflection. The gym is the only place where it’s socially acceptable to look at yourself. I compare my lacking chest and round tummy and linger on my arms where stretches of muscle are visible. I look myself in the eyes a little too intensely and, honestly, if I wasn’t me I’d probably think I’d want to fuck me. Narcissistic teenage girls don’t look at themselves this long. Finally, I inhale, and up go the weights. After eight reps, the weights come back down and I review my reflection. Getting swole, I think they call it. I’d be swole…