It’s perfect how oddly horrific the term and thought of perfection is. It’s perfectly terrifying how perfect my time with Maradona is.
Day after day, I have been shown the lighter side of life. I spend them with the greatest friend I could have asked for. Filling every single film and novel cliché about the perfect match. Today, we even realized that our sporadic trains of thought mirror each others.
We joined a gym together. Which on paper, is probably the worst idea ever. EVER. On dry-erase board, still the worst. Chalkboard?…. you guessed it. Idea = mount doom. However, it turns out that it couldn’t be a better situation for me. There are few things in the world I can properly motivate myself to accomplish. Writing, is a no motivation proposal. When it’s there, it has to happen. No convincing needed.
One that I have always struggled on the other hand, is workouts. It’s not rare that a human finds little motivation to hit the racks. I’ve enjoyed time at the gym. And I find it very relaxing. But getting from home to the location is the motivation is disconcerting.
It is not withheld information, that on “the scale” I am a few draft rounds behind the gorgeous woman with whom I am part-and-parcel. Which again, sounds like a terrible thing. But, as I am now with the most attractive human I’ve ever met, I look at myself differently. Surprisingly, it’s not in a negative way. For one, she wouldn’t be with me if I wasn’t at least remotely attractive myself. So….. score on my part. Secondly, when I look at myself in the mirror, I genuinely want to improve. In order to raise myself to the bar set by the woman at the end of my hand, I will forever see the potential inside my own reflection.
When I’m on the elliptical training machine, and the woozy clouds of heat and sweat take over my intention to finish, I found the light at the end of the tunnel. When I’m on the third set, and the muscles in my upper arm refuse to curl, I have discovered the internal adrenaline needed. It’s her. I can swing my head until my sight lands on her nauseating amount of radiance, the next machine over, and my desire to be the best me (for her sake) drags me into the winners circle.
I legitimately feel like landing anywhere but the top of the podium would be a failure. To succeed, would be to provide Maradona with a perfect me. She has bequeathed forever upon me, and I would like to make that time spent with me worth her while. And this is not to say that she bases her opinion of me on physical appearance. Far from it. My extremely steep mountain of wit and charm is what won her over (sarcasm mode *on*). Either way, along with my betterment, comes the clarity of the mind a person needs to be a king.
It’s a standard I must set for myself in order to feel like I am not wasting this precious woman’s time.