selfies on my timelines. Distinguished abs. Yoked calves. Toned pecs. This is all I see, what I am presented with. What I should have. I am not comfortable with my body. I grab my stomach and squeeze the extra fat together. At home, I don’t have to share this body. I have my own shower, my own time, and my own eyes to look at it. This tiled box is a physical manifestation of my insecurities. A house of mirrors where I can’t see a reflection, just my distorted, imagined view of myself. There is only one way in or out, a plexiglass door that censors my body from the outside perspective. The cheap door shudders open. The water stings more. I face the corner. Ashamed. Someone else walks in and turns on the shower head three feet away from me. No curtains to hide behind. Just body and body. If I can’t look at myself, why can someone else? They don’t deserve my imperfections—they are mine and mine alone. They are being cleaned. I cautiously watch the water run like rivulets off my skin, thinking of when it’s appropriate to exit. But something changes. He
starts speaking. Strikes up a conversation. He doesn’t comment on my body, he asks how I’m doing. He doesn’t joke about our dicks, he inquires about our weekend plans. He doesn’t mention that we’re showering, even though our conversation is happening without barriers between us. The naked body is unpleasant. It has spots where it sags, protrudes, scars. My naked body is not beautiful, but it is mine, and I hate it less. Every shower I take has started to become less stressful, less nervewracking. Every shower I become a little more confident. If the people I thought would judge my body most, the guys from high school who played sport and showered together, the friends I now call my brothers, didn’t judge the kid who did theater and film, why should I judge myself? If I could talk about anything from politics to pop culture naked in a frat shower, I could do anything. Am I comfortable? Not completely. Am I confident? More so than ever before. words by kyle heiner
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