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About msclundylvr

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    6'2", 240

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  1. Cool, SibeuskyNZ. I'll check it out!
  2. Thanks for the tip, Al. I'll check it out.
  3. Hey guys, I am wondering if anyone out there uses a food tracker app. I have used MyPlate and MyFitnessPal in the past, but I am so frustrated with the fact that they always seem to use "servings" and it's impossible to tell serving size on there. I have a scale, so weighing food is no issue for me. Any suggestions? MUL
  4. I ran across this article today. It's definitely muscle-related, but more scholarly than most postings around here. I'm curious what other guys think about it, so I thought I would post a link. I look forward to the ensuing discussion! http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/10/hunks-how-ripped-became-an-ideal/280494/?utm_source=SFFB
  5. Hey guys, I was just about to post on this topic. Here's a link to the story I read. This shit's for real for one in 5.5 million... http://www.iflscience.com/health-and-medicine/man-born-two-penises
  6. I am just going to add my two cents that I much preferred the previous color combo. This is very ominous. I always chose the lighter color for the old site too.
  7. Thanks for this topic. LOVE imagining I'm growing as a jerk. Hottest orgasms ever are dreaming about being with a partner and we both grow during sex.
  8. The Mirror Chapter 5 By Msclundylvr A few minutes after my first explosive orgasm in my newly refined body, I begin to recover from the onslaught of pleasure and begin caressing my torso, all the while marveling at the copious amount of cum slathered all over my slightly hairy chest. It begins to dry, so I decide to head to the shower, grabbing a package of briefs I had purchased recently. I had grabbed a package that was two sizes too small by mistake, but they might just work now. As I am drying off, I hear a knock at the door. I assume it is Josh, the college kid next door. He’s a music major from a conservative, religious family who had just come out of the closet a few months ago. Being a gay professional musician from a similar background, I had become a sort of mentor to him. Besides, he was a talented pianist, could partake in intelligent conversation, and was generally a delight to have around. He was about 5’10” tall but skinny as a rail. At the age of 21, he is still plagued with acne problems. It is too bad because anybody could tell that under that red, irritated skin was a real cutie with a heart of gold. Since Josh has basically become my adopted little brother, we have become rather comfortable with one another, just like family. I grab the briefs off the counter, put them on, marvel for two seconds at how well they fit, and rush to answer the door. I look through the peephole and see Josh’s spiky blond hair. I turn the deadbolt, grab the doorknob and pull the door open standing so I am hidden from the hallway. Mrs. Miller is the prudish old wench across the hall who disapproves of any displays of sexuality and wishes everyone would just dress like a puritan, covered from the chin down. Rather than risk a lecture, I play it safe and stay covered by the door. Josh comes into my apartment in a melodramatic huff. This scene is all too familiar. He went out to the bars last night and felt invisible the whole time because gay culture puts so much emphasis on athleticism and beauty. Since he doesn’t fit into the poster boy mold, he feels like the ugly duckling. He is actually kind of cute when he gets himself worked up like this, so I simply close the door, lean against it, and cross my arms and legs while he gets it all out. I have learned that it really is much easier to let him get it all out up front. Finally, he ends his five-minute tirade with “How am I ever going to find my future husband if I can’t even get a guy to look at me?” He spins around and looks at me quizzically. “Uhh…hi. I’m looking for David. Who are you?” Forgetting what had happened, I reply, “Did you do drugs last night while you were at this club? If you did, we’re going to have to have a serious talk about this. It’s me. The same old David you’ve known for the last two years.” “No. The David I know is not a muscle-bound hunk who flaunts his rather enormous package in skimpy briefs. Though, apparently he has a lot more luck with the guys than I do! Maybe I should go, let you two get back to whatever you were doing, and ask him about his pickup technique later!” “Josh, what are you talking…”? Just then I remembered that I was not the same old me. “Uh, Josh--hold on, I’ll be right back.” Josh settled down on my cough and began thumbing through my latest copy of The Advocate while I went into my bedroom. “Oh shit,” I thought while I looked in the mirror. “How am I going to explain this?” I had seen his eyes bugging out while checking out my new body. He’ll never believe me. I especially can’t have this conversation while exposed. I search through my drawers for a t-shirt and some jeans. All of my t-shirts are tight on my arms and chest but hang straight down from my chest, covering the taper of my torso. I flex a little in the mirror seeing how much I can flex without ripping the seams. I grab my favorite pair of jeans. I look in the mirror as I pull them up and ponder what a shame it is to cover up my newly enhanced dick. However, this 21-year-old horndog would never be able to concentrate on the conversation with a 7-inch soft penis to look at. As I button my jeans, I pull them out to see that they are about six inches too big on my waist. I grab a belt to cinch them down, but though the belt makes them a couple of inches smaller, they still run the risk of slipping down and showing off my newest and finest assets. That’s when I remember a pair of jeans my friend Sam had left behind when he visited a couple of months ago. He is a good friend of mine from college who is a notorious, but loveable slob. Sam is absolutely gorgeous. He has model good looks and looks amazing in anything he puts on from a t-shirt and jeans to a tux. Though my insecurities made me feel undesirable next to him, he only treated me with kindness and friendship. If only he weren’t hopelessly straight… When he realized he’d left them, Sam called and told me to hang onto these jeans because he might need them next time he was in town. I dug to the back of my closet where I’d stashed them. I looked in the mirror as I pulled them up; they fit my new thighs and ass like a glove. The cut of the jeans only accented my new package even further. I was definitely going to need to sit down for this conversation if there was any hope that Josh would be able to concentrate—oh crap, Josh. I need to get back out there and stop staring into this mirror. As I opened the bedroom door, I heard Josh whistle and say, “Man, David is a great guy, and I certainly owe him a lot for putting up with me the past couple of years. However, I never thought he’d be able to get a hottie like you.” “Josh, about that…you won’t believe this, but I am David.” “Oh, that’s just like him—finding another guy named David,” Josh chortled. “No, I’m David. Your neighbor... The first person you came out to. I’m the guy who drove you to your parents’ house and sat next to you as you came out to them. I’m the guy who held you most of the night while you cried over the guy who took your virginity only to get back at his cheating boyfriend. I’m the guy who just last week helped you come up with those fingerings for that Schubert piece you’re working on. I—uhh—have just had an upgrade.” “No fucking way. How the hell did you know all of that stuff? Why did David tell you all of that about me? How did you know about those fingerings? Where is David? What have you done with him? You KILLED him, didn’t you?” I grabbed Josh by the cheeks, stifling a laugh, and said, “JOSH! Just shut up for a second! Look at my eyes. It’s me!” He looked and recognized the blue-green color of my eyes and then noticed the mole on my cheek that hadn’t moved. He still looked a little skeptical, so I took him to the piano and played the section of that Schubert piece with the fingerings we had worked out. Then he believed what I was saying. “How? How is this possible? I mean you have the same eyes, the same musical talent, the same personality, but now you this incredible body too!” With both of us sitting on the bench in front of my upright piano, I told Josh the story of finding the mirror in the attic and having just discovered its powers. During the silences in our conversation, Josh would play until his thoughts were clear enough to ask a new question. Though I couldn’t answer many of his questions because I’d only had the mirror for a few hours, I could some inner turmoil coming through as he played. Finally, he stopped playing, turned to me and said, “I want to try it.”
  9. The Mirror Chapter 4 Once I am back in my bedroom, I blush at the sight in the mirror. A muscleboy blushing—what an intensely heart melting and erection causing sight! My improved body is seriously hot; however, since I am not used to this sight being me, I find myself going into my usual shy shell. I have always wanted to go up to a muscleboy, ask him to flex his muscles and allow me to feel the power surging through his vascular body, but I have never had the courage. As I steal glances at the mirror, I start flexing my new muscles one by one. First a little bicep curl, then a tricep extension. Soon my shyness fades away as I become more comfortable and realize that I now radiate that power and strength I have so often admired from afar. I can’t help but break into a flexing session. I can’t believe my new biceps. Still wearing just a towel, I drop to the floor and crank out some pushups. I have NEVER been able to do pushups with such ease. After 50 reps, I look into the mirror to see my bulging biceps and triceps supporting my body and my freshly pumped chest cranking out the reps. I smile at the sight in the mirror. I have always had a good smile, but it looks even better with this square jaw and chiseled cheeks. As I look in the mirror, I notice my dimples are still there and etch even further into my cheeks, but my single crooked tooth (which has always made me crazy) straightens and my teeth become even whiter, creating a winning smile. As I walk toward the mirror to make the latest change reality, I can’t help but notice my calves and how long and shapely they’ve become. I touch the mirror and take a couple steps back, turn around, and begin flexing my feet up and down. These new calves belong to an athlete—an athlete who has spent entire months of his life pounding the pavement and day after day working in a weight room carving these chiseled muscles. I pull the towel up a bit to get a good look at my hamstrings in the mirror. I flex my thighs and cannot help but be in awe at their new shapeliness. I reach down and start to caress my new legs. They are so firm and taut with just the right amount of hair to make even touching myself that much more sensuous. Stroking the first thigh was such a turn-on that I could not deny the second the same treatment. I reach around front to grab the towel. As my right hand goes back for its caress, my left hand loses one corner of the towel in front. The towel unravels from around my body exposing one of the most curvaceous, strong, sexy asses I have ever seen. My right hand bypasses my alluring thigh and lands squarely on my right cheek and squeezes. The muscle is so strong that my hand hardly makes a dent in the flesh. My senses are overloaded. My eyes see this great asset (all possible puns intended) and my right hand is experiencing this first hand, but my brain is unable to process the incredibly sexy information coming from these seemingly impossible reports. It is time for reinforcement—my left hand, causing me to drop the towel to the floor. After a few minutes of caressing my completely smooth and extremely sensuous ass, my brain realizes I still have not seen what is tugging so seductively on the other side of my body opposite this enticing ass. My hands freeze as if glued in place on my ass. I look at the floor and slowly turn around. My eyes start at the bottom frame of the mirror and being to scan upward. They survey the strong ligaments and tendons of my feet. They observe the length and shape of my calves. They scrutinize my knees. They marvel at the new mounds of strength that are my quads. At this point, my hands miraculously become unglued from my ass and begin to trace the path of my eyes. They linger over each bump of my quadriceps, over all four muscle bodies in each leg, feeling the strength and potential power within each striation. Then my eyes and my hands behold perhaps the greatest sight of the entire adventure. My body, its beauty, its musculature, it’s seeming perfection looks as if it were crafted by Michelangelo himself, a creation surpassing his David in beauty, bulk, and sensuality. However, there was one appendage on this body that seemed to be crafted by the collective genius of all the Italian Renaissance artists—my penis. My hands cease roaming about mid-thigh. My body pauses because I cannot take my attention away from the rigid colossus staring at me in the mirror. After a few moments of stunned stillness, I slowly turn to my right and relax my hands to my sides. This perfectly shaped, perfectly carved erect penis and its pendulous scrotum belong on a statue somewhere in Rome, Venice, or Milan at a secret bathhouse where gay Renaissance men came for passionate encounters, perhaps a former temple to Hercules or Achilles. Instead, it is here in the present-day US attached to my living, feeling, breathing body—and I can hardly believe it. My right hand slowly comes up to lightly stroke my newly improved phallus. It is so rigid that it hardly moves at the touch. I look down at the network of veins on my shaft and begin to trace them one by one. The slightest touch of a single finger causes so much pleasure. In fact, it’s so much pleasure that I think I had better lie down on the bed before it becomes too much to handle. After propping myself up on some pillows giving myself the optimum firsthand view, I continue my exploration. I trace the biggest vein on the top of the shaft all the way out to the crown. Ten inches later, I graze the crown and close my eyes while stopping just for a second to savor that first contact with so many new nerve endings. My left hand holds the shaft still while my right begins to circle the crown very slowly, enjoying each new sensation. Reaching the sweet spot, I take time to stroke up and down. This sensation causes my new monster to leak precum. It continues to leak as I complete the circle around. By the time I complete the circle, precum has completely lubricated the tip. I attempt to circle my cock with my thumb and forefinger, but my shaft is so wide the fingers don’t meet. Realizing that my glans is even wider only adds to my state of arousal, increasing the flow of precum. I use my thumb and forefinger to spread it all over the tip, enjoy every pleasurable second. Soon, I can’t stand to have only two fingers involved. I need my whole fist. In the next few minutes, I test many grips on this 11.5 inch dick and find each one brings it’s own unique pleasure. However, the grip that has since become my trusty go to—the two fister—is the finale. I stand at the foot of my bed with my right hand at the tip and my left hand at the base. I am amazed there is enough space to move my hands in the same direction or opposite directions, which is simply fucking awesome to say the least. This is the maneuver that causes me to lose control. I blast the first load from these gigantic balls out of this huge cock onto the mirror that gave them to me in the first place. My orgasm releases floodgates. My brain is so flooded by pleasure it shuts down and allows my senses to revel in the orgasmic bliss. I lose my balance and am knocked backward onto the bed by the orgasmic force. I rest peacefully and contentedly while my new body and brain recover from the tsunami.
  10. The Mirror Chapter 3 Whether first thing in the morning or after a lazy Saturday afternoon nap, I am horrible about waking up. In fact, I believe it is the thing I do worst during he course of my day. I have always had quite vivid dreams, often feeling like I’ve had conversations with people, who are usually confused when I bring them up in real life—but that’s another story for another time. However, this particular dream was way beyond anything my subconscious usually cooks up. This dream involved an estate sale, a mirror, muscles, my cock, and all of these things coming together in a very strange way. Speaking of cock, apparently mine enjoyed the contents of this dream. Since my earliest days of masturbating thoughts of big muscles and big cocks have always played major roles in my fantasies. There is just something so masculine about a big set of rock hard pecs, something so erection inspiring about the curve of a well-toned butt, something so powerful about a huge erection bobbing in front of a muscle stud—wow, my dick gets even harder at the mere thought of that. I’m awake enough to realize my cock is so hard it hurts. I’ve got to take care of this before it bursts like a balloon. I reach under the sheet and grab hold—wait, what the hell kind of weird position did I sleep in? Why is my left wrist where my cock should be? Why does it feel like I’m gripping my penis when there’s no way my penis could be that big? This realization makes me throw the covers back—“HOLY SHIT! This CAN’T be real!” I fly out of bed as if the fire alarm had just gone off and see the mirror sitting there, reflecting the body from my dream. “No way this really happened. I’m still delirious after that nap,” I say out loud to nobody in particular. I really have to stop talking to myself at some point, though if what I think just happened really happened, I think any therapist in the country would forgive me for this one indiscretion. I run through the living room/kitchen combo room into my bathroom, nearly tripping over the coffee table in this coat closet I call home. After splashing some cold water on my face to shake off the fog of sleep, the bathroom mirror confirms what the new mirror in the bedroom had shown—I had in fact lost 50 lbs of fat and gained several pounds of muscle. The small bathroom mirror helps me examine my new stunning facial features in greater detail. My skin is absolutely flawless with no blemishes in sight—even the scar on my chin from falling off my bike in 2nd grade was gone. My cheekbones are more pronounced, and my jaw line is incredibly cut and clean; the water drips off my jaw like rain off of a cliff overhang. The only thing “round” about this face is the shape of my eyes. My forehead comes down a little further, giving me a very masculine yet friendly look. The little bit of gray I had been developing on my temples is still there, giving an air of sophistication to my mere 26 years. I can tell the face in the mirror is me, the me I’ve always been, but somehow it’s sexier, manlier. My neck is solid. It might even give a guillotine a run for its money, should I be transported back to Napoleonic France. (Where do I come up with this stuff? —random.) I examine my well-shaped shoulders, flexing them in turn in the tiny mirror. My right shoulder slowly moves out of sight in the mirror to be replaced by one of the sexiest biceps/triceps sets I’ve ever seen. They are so well formed that I can’t believe they haven’t been photoshopped. Continuing on down, my forearms are unbelievably vascular, and my hands look like they could crush rocks with ease, yet the skin was is flawless and the shape was so picture perfect that these hands could belong to a hand model. Going back up to my torso, the tiny mirror barely displays the tops of my pecs. I need the full-body mirror in order to go any further. I am definitely enjoying this little charade and decide to carry it further once I get back to the bedroom, so I grab a towel and cover my lower half with it. (Looking back, I don’t think I could’ve handled the full-on frontal attack right away. One must build up gradually to this level of perfection!)
  11. The Mirror Chapter 2 I pull into my driveway and pause to take a look at my newly acquired treasures. Thank goodness we figured out how to take the mirror off of the stand to make it easier to carry upstairs. Still, I have to take my time and be very careful taking it to my second-floor apartment. Once the bulky mirror is upstairs, the other things I had purchased are very easy to unload. It is time to refuel with lunch and a healthy dose of coffee. (I am such an addict these days.) I move some things around to make room in my bedroom for the mirror and assemble it in its new home. The cheap rocking chair from my landlord goes into the attic and the floor lamp gets relocated to the living room, making room for the mirror right next to my closet. The mirror fits like a glove. I admire the mirror and look at myself. Is it just me, or do I look a little skinnier? I bustle around the apartment putting things away and searching for the right place to hang the old maps I purchased. I can't help but admire the mirror, and look at myself in it, each time I pass it. It fits perfectly, and I can see myself from head to toe. The mirror is without a doubt THE find of the day. Finally, everything is put away and the apartment is back in order (so I’m a little type A, sue me.) I am drawn back to the mirror. I stand there in my cargo pants and polo. Maybe too many powerbar meals, work stress, and simply getting too caught up in life to remember to eat occasionally is starting to get to me. I do look thinner than I remember. Not that I’m complaining, but it’s probably not the healthiest way to go about dropping a few pounds. Still, I could stand to lose quite a bit more weight. I try to imagine what I’d look like if I lost this extra weight I’m carrying around. The image in the mirror starts to change. “What the--???” A few seconds later, the mirror’s image stops changing. My jaw drops nearly to the floor; I am flabbergasted. The face in the mirror is still mine complete with glasses, only far less round. Same nose, same eyes, same Harry Potter hair (thanks summer humidity). The body, however, is completely different. Far skinnier. The waist is at least six inches smaller, there’s no spare tire around the middle, and the legs are no longer the wobbly towers of jell-o I am used to. And, where are the man boobs I’ve had for as long as I can remember? Okay, what’s the trick? What’s going on? I walk to the side of the mirror and examine the back. I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I walk around back to the front and it’s the same image I’m used to seeing of myself. Overweight, rounded face, spare tire, everything. I shake my head and rub my eyes. Man, what’s wrong with me? Too much heat today? How much did I really have to drink last night? Okay, that was strange. Nothing has changed. Maybe I just need to lie down and relax for a while. I grab the novel I’ve been trying to get through for several weeks now and lay down on the bed. Within a few minutes, I’m asleep. The dreams I have are extremely vivid and sexual, and I wake up with a throbbing erection that is insistent and will not go away without releasing some pent up sexual tension. As I am taking care of my sexual needs, I can’t help but look in the mirror. I start masturbating in different positions. Wow, there are definitely parts of my body I have never examined in such detail before. Some details I definitely did not want to see. Since when did my ass become so hairy? How the hell did I get a zit THERE? I get up from the bed with my cock as hard as ever. Still giving it the occasional jack, I start flexing and examining myself in the mirror. I run my hands up from my crotch over my flabby stomach. I think to myself, “Man, how sexy would it be to have a six-pack?” I close my eyes and start to imagine. My hands go further to play with my own nipples. “Man, I wish these nipples were attached some hard, firm pecs.” I stay there for a while relishing the thought of being a buff stud. My cock is as hard as ever. I reach down to my penis to give it a few strokes and open my eyes. I open my eyes somewhat cautiously because I know the image that will be reflected in the mirror will completely shatter the fantasy in my mind. Boy, was I wrong. Instead, I behold a most unexpected sight. My head, arms, and legs are as I had always known them, but my torso is tight, muscular, and cut. I HAVE WASHBOARD ABS! My pecs are unbelievably well shaped with nice nipples that are eager to be sucked. How the hell has this happened!?! I touch my mid-section feeling the usual jelly-like tummy I had always known, but the hand in the mirror is running over a veritable washboard! What the hell! My left hand stays on the bowl of jelly that is my abdomen while my right hand goes for the mirror to attempt to figure out what could be causing this discrepancy. As soon as my right hand touches the mirror, my left hand is no longer touching flesh, only hovering in midair. I look down and cannot believe what I see—six-pack abs! MY six-pack. Wait, this can’t be happening. I don’t have a six-pack. I stumble backward onto the bed. I am in awe of what just happened. My eyes roam over the newest features of my body as reflected in the mirror. I fail at trying to make sense of all of this. Though confused at how this could possibly happen, I am incredibly turned on that it has! I can’t take it any longer and start stroking my intensely hard cock. I watch myself in the mirror, admiring the way my abs contract as the pleasure builds and I began bucking my hips. My eyes roam all over my body, the fantasies take over. I fantasize about my biceps and triceps becoming more defined. The mirror responds. I dream about long, shapely, hard, cut legs. The mirror responds. I imagine myself with an all-over tan. The mirror responds. I dream about a sculpted, cut face that no longer needs glasses. The mirror responds. I walk over to the mirror. As I touch it, I feel my arms being pushed away from my body due to their increased muscle mass. My legs harden, and the sexy calf muscles protrude through my skin like never before. I flex my quads and each muscle stands out in stark relief. I can’t believe the underwear model standing in front of this mirror is truly me! Although I am incredibly horny, the thought of me looking like a model makes me stop what I am doing to take a good look at what I have become in the mirror. I have become a tan, cut, athletic, sexy piece of masculinity who every man would envy and every woman would want to fuck. (Though, in my case, I’d rather fuck the men—especially the envious ones who will lick and suck and rub in all the right places.) As I flex my new muscles and take a visual inventory, though it was as hard as ever, my penis seems a bit out of place. It was the same penis I had known since puberty tapered off a few years back (except a little more tan thanks to my fantasies), but somehow, it just didn’t make sense on this new body. It's as hard as it has ever been. Looking just the same as always. That was about to change. My fantasies kick in once again. There had never been a problem with the equipment I had naturally, but another two inches in length and an inch in diameter couldn’t hurt. I touched the glass while and gave my longer, thicker dick a good stroking. Damn, who knew that two inches more of penis would bring with it so many new sensations. Then, I noticed that my balls just didn’t hold their own against the new reflected member. I pulled my penis up so I could see the changes more clearly. I fantasized about my testicles each growing about an inch in circumference. I've also always thought my balls hung a little higher than I would've liked. My eyes bugged out a little as they drop lower in my scrotum as if being lowered by a biological dumbwaiter. They look more full and virile than I recall them ever being. As I touch the mirror to make the changes come to fruition, the testosterone from my much larger balls kicks in. Sexual desire overcomes me. I can't hold back any longer. My hands go back to my now much more voluminous genitals. Within a few seconds, my newly lengthened penis and expanded balls churn out a load to rival all loads ever produced by male genitalia onto my new mirror. I bucked my new sexy hips with each load of cum. As I squeezed out the last little bit, I collapse onto my bed in a complete state of bliss and quickly fall asleep, momentarily exhausted.
  12. Hey guys, at the urging of arpeejay, here are some installments of my story The Mirror from many years ago. I hope you still enjoy them! The Mirror By msclundylvr It’s Saturday. Although I was out at the bar with a couple of friends last night, I am awake automatically at 7:00 a.m. Damned Circadian Rhythms! What happened to the days when I could be up until 4:00 a.m. and sleep well into the afternoon with no problems whatsoever? Oh well, I might as well get up and find something to do. I head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. On the way, I look in the mirror to see what configuration my hair got into during my slightly inebriated sleep. My wavy brown hair that usually falls nicely just at the top of my ears is standing on end in the front and completely flat in the back—it must’ve been a rough night. As I try to remember my dreams, I recall the nightmares that plagued my sleep. Job failure, deaths of family members, fights with friends, and general dis-ease with life are regularly featured in the flicks shown on the backs of my eyelids. There are those who say that our dream lives are fairly accurate indicators about the things that fill our subconscious thoughts. I would tend to agree with them. My first job out of graduate school is nothing as I had hoped when I took it a year ago. I am trapped in that place where I would love to move onto something new and exciting but can’t because I haven’t put in enough time at this job to have gained enough experience from it—according to those who read resumes regularly. “Nobody likes a job-hopper.” Well, nobody likes being confined in a bad situation either! According to the Myers-Briggs people, I am a “polarized T.” Meaning, although it is still first thing in the morning, although I’m somewhat hung-over, although I haven’t had any coffee, and although I am on the way to take my morning piss, I am already thinking and analyzing my reality as revealed through dreams. Is this normal? For me, it’s just par for the course. I take care of my business in the bathroom and head to the kitchen to get the coffee pot brewing while I take my shower. I take my t-shirt off on the way to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I am greeted by a sobering reminder of how out of shape I am. Damn. Why did I have to get the genes to be the fat kid? Thanks Mom and Dad… I’ve had man-boobs for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been the athletic sort—well, not the sort to be out there sweating and grunting. I was always the smart kid more interested learning about life through books and television than actually being out there experiencing life and grabbing it by the proverbial horns. Growing up in a small, midwestern town didn’t help this one bit. The only options afforded to anyone were to be an athlete or a nobody. I have the feeling that the fact that I’ve worn glasses since second grade did not help me to break out of my dorky nobody role. Though I was never the one to be outside playing basketball or tag or capture the flag, I was secretly jealous of those who were. Why was it so easy for them to be lithe and athletic? Why did they seem to have all of the fun? As we got older, why were they the ones invited to all of the parties, the ones who got all of the girls? Why were they endowed with pecs, bis, and abs that seemed to be on display constantly no matter what they wore? Why did their muscles seem to grow with only minimal effort? I know mine are under here somewhere, yet even the little bit of exercise I attempted, they never really showed through. Damn genetics. Okay, okay, enough self-deprecation. I look at myself in the mirror again. I hate the tiny mirror in the bathroom. I can hardly see anything more than my face and shoulders—well, the man-boobs, but I pretend they aren’t there. A friend of mine always makes me say some positive things about myself whenever I get down. Maybe that’ll work. Man, that coffee smells good. Okay, back with a cup. I look in the mirror again and remember that I never said the positives. Here we go. Though I have the fat gene—wait, no comparisons, only positives. I like my 6’2” height. I love my hair—when it behaves and doesn’t stand on end. (My mane of hair has been compared to that of Patrick Dempsey. I can see the resemblance, but without a professional hair person putting it back in place every two seconds like McDreamy, mine ends up looking more like Harry Potter at times.) I have good eyes that flip between blue and green depending on what I’m wearing. Okay, that’s the required three. That’s enough. In the shower, I try to figure out what I want to do with my day. Hang out? Nah, the weather is too nice. Lake? Nah, everybody will be there on Saturday. Let’s see…what’s something I can’t do on the normal day of the week? I am sick of one of my walls being bare because I don’t have anything with which to cover it, so I decide to go check out some garage and estate sales in the area. I dry off, shave, dress, brush the teeth, and the rest of the morning routine. I put on the new cargo pants I bought a couple days ago—I wish this damned mirror wasn’t so small so I could see what they look like. Or, maybe it’s better I can’t see. At the first garage sale, I see a couple of old maps that would fit in poster frames and work well in my apartment (thanks for the tip Fab 5!) I go to a couple of other sales and pick up some great stuff. The back seat of my SUV is filling up with stuff and I’ve still spent only $30! Why don’t I do this more often? (Right, I live in a small, one bedroom apartment. I have to remind myself there isn’t room for extra junk in there.) I get my cell out of my pocket to check the time. It’s 11:30. I can get one more sale in before noon when most of the sales really start to dwindle or close. There’s a huge estate sale at a veritable mansion only a mile away. I probably can’t afford anything there, but why not. It is the sort of estate sale where you can wander through the house and look at the objects in their original environment. I may never have the chance to wander through this Victorian mansion again, so I decide to take it in while I can. I wander through the various sitting rooms and parlors. Everything is pretty picked through by this time of day, but still it is nice to see the hand-carved woodworking, amazing plaster molding, elaborate chandeliers, and other architectural features. The other people milling around are obviously snooty collectors looking for a bargain on antiques. The woman running the sale introduces herself and tells me that the sale will be officially ending soon, but since I’m already inside and appear to be enjoying the ambiance, she says I can take my time since she has to stick around for awhile to close up the books. I finish the first floor and go through the second. At the end of the upstairs hall, I notice a back staircase leading up to what must have been the servant’s quarters back in the day. I reach the top of the stairs where I am standing in a large, wood-paneled room. There are a few boxes scattered around. It is very dusty. This space must have been used as attic storage space once society shifted to the place where servants no longer served their employers 24-7. Something at the other end of the room catches my eye. I walk over to the sheet-covered object and begin my investigation. It stands about six inches taller than me. I try to peek under the sheet but can’t tell what kind of furniture it is. It has beautifully carved feet. I look around to make sure I am still alone. I don’t hear anybody else either, so I pull the sheet off. Under the sheet is a stunning full-body mirror. It is stunning and though the glass is original, the silver backing is still in great condition except for about half an inch around the sides. The tarnished border gives it a mysterious, dreamy quality. I look at myself head to toe in the mirror. I haven’t seen the full view of myself for a while. Now I’m really jealous of the athletic guys growing up. Man boobs, a flat tire around my belly. Big thighs and ass… I’m 26! I’m supposed to be in my prime. What does this say for my future??? Okay, think positively. Height? Good. Hair? More Patrick than Harry—good. Eyes? Looking green today against the blue polo I have on. Same statements I used this morning, but feeling better about things. Maybe I should try yet another diet and exercise program. I mean, even if I could lose 10 pounds, it’d be a start. I look in the mirror and think, “I wonder what I’d look like if I were 10 lbs. lighter.” As soon as I said that, it looked like the image in the mirror shifted a little without me moving. I stuck my finger out to examine the glass to see if it was settling due to age, as often happens with old glass. Just then, I hear footsteps on the stairs. I hear the voice of the woman in charge of the sale. “Hello? Hello? Anyone up there?” Just then, she appeared at the top of the stairs. “Uhhh…hi. I was just exploring and ran across this wonderful mirror.” “Oh, that old thing? We can’t find any information about it in the estate records. We have no idea when it was purchased or who made it. We’ve had appraisers here to look at it and they think it must be some local yokel who made it at some point. The mirror silvering isn’t very good anymore.” We were just going to throw it out.” “What! It’s great! How much do you want for it? I can’t pay much, but I’d like to take it.” “Oh, just take it. No charge. Like I said, we were going to throw the worthless thing out.” “Thanks! I have just the place for it.” “Let me see if I can find someone to help you carry it to your car.” I turn to the mirror and look at my new cargo pants. Damned things are apparently stretching. They fit just fine in the store, but now they’re sitting a little low on my waist. I knew I should’ve put a belt on before I left. I grab the sheet and put it back over the mirror for the journey out to my car.
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