My hour-long work out routine consists of 5 minutes of push-ups on my bedroom floor, a denial mirror repelling my lanky limbs; 5 minutes of keeping my chin high over the bar of self doubt; 10 minutes placing 100 pounds of failure on my chest so it becomes the elephant in the room; 10 minutes jogging with ghosts chuckling at my chunky thighs, and I'll smile, knowing I'll soon be able to fit in my old butt pants; 30 minutes thinking sweat is a masculinity cloak.