My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

Like three 19th century convicts deported by the British government to the penal colony of New South Wales, S___, K___ and I were ravaged by a work week’s worth of physical punishment and medical neglect.

But with most spates of excessive labor comes an eventual reprieve, and for us, Friday evening offered such an opportunity to forgive Australia for its cruel sun and backbreaking coal mines and, instead, indulge in the healing balm of its yeast-based cuisine.

A journey to the south and to the west – a journey traveled so many times by so many – over the bridge and through what was once surely woods, to Outback Steakhouse in Arlington, Virginia, we go!

There was a 30 minute wait at Outback, so we went to Olive Garden instead.

Presented with a menu of perverted Italian fare, I chose the Apricot Something Chicken, which the ristorante’s website later revealed as having just 380 calories.

S___ and K___, on the other hand, each opted for the gastronomic Tour of Italy, a 1,400-calorie junket that typically includes an abrupt stopover in the bathroom.

I was pleased with my choice, although you’d never guess based on how fat I’m feeling at the pool today.

I went to a “political fundraiser” last night, and by that I mean my friend is running for reelection in the ANC and a wine-and-cheese party was thrown in his honor. There were lots of people there I didn’t know and a near-equal number of people I didn’t feel like getting to know, but a few proved worthy of the risk of uncomfortable small talk, including this kid I recognized from my gym.

Now, unlike the completely ridiculous Vida that opened on 15th and P Streets last week, my gym is far from a gay discotheque masquerading as a health club. In fact, it caters pretty strongly to that niche market of individuals who go to the gym to – wait for it – work out. No one talks to each other, eye contact is avoided, and military efficiency both in the locker room and near the weight racks is encouraged. And so for me to admit to recognizing a fellow gym member at a party is almost taboo, because it would imply my attention at some point during a workout drifted from the task at hand to the face of another human being. But whatever, I stare creepily at people all the time, so I walked right up to him last night and said hi.

As it turns out, he recognized me as well (obviously) and we debated briefly the hotness level of the male trainers based on height, hair style, and bicep size. I also commented on the fact that he works with a trainer while I do not, feigning a tinge of jealousy, even though I strongly prefer to perform bench presses without looking up the shorts of someone who’s being paid to shout at me. The conversation was going fine, until one of my friends walked over.

“Oh, hey, this is ___, we go to the same gym. He has a trainer, I don’t.”

The unintentional cattiness of my remark was further enforced by my friend, who said, “Really?” and laughed.

I’m looking forward to returning to the gym on Monday, where a 50-pound dumbbell will likely be dropped on my foot.

There were arguably only three guys at the resort with better bodies than me. Now, this says much more about the quality of guys at the resort than it says about me. The running joke among my family was that, with the food being so bad, we’d all at least lose some weight – a prospect that should have been appealing to most of the resort’s guests, but was, of course, appalling to me. (In fact, I lost nearly 10 pounds over the course of the week.) Anyway, suffice it to say that the majority of people at this resort were fat fucks.

But as I said, there were three guys who were insanely fit and generated in me an intense hatred (for both them and myself) whenever they were at the pool. I created nicknames for them because I’m a psycho with a staring problem.

1. Tony Guido. This guy was fresh off the New Jersey Turnpike, for sure. In addition to being roided out of control, he had impeccably spiked hair seemingly impervious to the crashing waves, he wore a silver chain with a cross, and he had diamond studs in his ears. Sadly, his face looked like the back of a Buick LaSabre, which pleased me in a cruel but endless way.

2. Mini John Cena. Again, another roided-out freak, but with a better face that bore a striking resemblance to that of John Cena. The guy even wore jean shorts! I docked him for being short and smoking cigarettes, because god forbid I allow someone to have an amazing physique without interpreting it as a personal threat.

3. Wheels. There’s not much to say about Wheels other than that he was bound to a wheelchair yet somehow had bigger, more muscular legs than me or anyone I know. I tried really hard to not relish in his disability, but, yeah, I’m an asshole. What can I say.

You know, at the end of the day, I wish I could look at someone with a great body and find inspiration in him. Instead, I become filled with self-hatred and resentment. I don’t think any amount of muscle I could possibly gain will change this.

Augh, no more writing about this vacation. Too depressing.

I am 192 pounds. I took progress pictures tonight of my upper body and my legs. I will start cutting when I hit 200 in May.

On Monday night my best friend from high school texts me the following: “omg emergency you must check your gmail asap.” Tragically, I am in a restaurant with my boyfriend and unable to access my iPhone because I don’t have one yet. However, I’m certain that someone from my high school got pregnant, got cancer, got fat, or died, because my friend would have no reason to text me otherwise.

I obsess about this text message throughout the duration of our meal, wondering what exciting tidbit my friend has in store for me. The last time this happened, I was simply told via text message, “Ellen has cancer.” Assuming Ellen DeGeneres was diagnosed with breast cancer, I logged onto Google News and found nothing. Turns out she meant Ellen, a mutual high school friend. Perversely, I was relieved.

My boyfriend and I finally get back to his apartment, where I show considerable restraint as he hops onto the lone computer and does a Google Image search for Roger Lodge. Once that’s out of the way, I push him aside and log into Gmail, where I see several new Google Alerts, something from Citibank about paying taxes with your credit card (hmm, seems responsible), and – yes! – an e-mail from my friend, WITH PHOTO ATTACHMENTS. This is going to be good.

But oh, it was not good. Quite the opposite, actually. Living 300 miles away, my friend isn’t quite filled in on my body dysmorphic tendencies and surely had no idea that sending me photos of a high school classmate who is now a bodybuilder would send me into a spiral of despair. This person looked better than me in high school (soccer and wrestling star) and looks better than me know, despite my efforts. And in my pathetic world where all I have time for is my job and the gym, that’s all that matters to me.

So I delete the e-mail and I remind myself that he is 5′4″ and orange and looks like a squat Super Mario, which didn’t help nearly as much as the pint of Haagen Dazs Sticky Toffee Pudding that I ate two minutes later while curled up on the couch with my boyfriend watching the new “Samantha Who.”

How does London Preppy get his skin to be so clear and flawless? These pictures make me look like I have a glandular problem.

I’ll post some pictures of my wheels next week.

After watching a “Cheerleader U” marathon on WE last night, my boyfriend and I tuned in to LMN for the 1996 made-for-TV movie “A Secret Between Friends: A Moment of Truth Movie” – originally titled “When Friendship Kills.” (Spoiler: The secret is anorexia.)

Looking back, I can see now why they changed the name of the movie. The only reason Jen died is because Lexi shared Jen’s “secret” with her mother, who in turn shared the secret with Jen’s mother. One thing led to another, and, naturally, Jen was struck and killed by a car. Lesson: Anorexia may be dangerous, but it’s a friendship with someone who cares about your well-being that will kill you in the end!

Because “A Secret Between Friends” won’t air again on LMN until RIGHT NOW (12:42 p.m. EST, to be exact), I’ve outlined below some key Lifetime Lessons imparted to my boyfriend and I by this cinematic masterpiece.

1. When entering your room to borrow a tampon, your mother – who, it should be noted, drove away your father with her ceaseless nagging and self-righteous “working mom” sense of entitlement – will overreact to the fact that you haven’t ovulated in three months, demanding that you see a gynecologist. (Additionally and without elaboration, your mother will then mention that she needs to see a gynecologist herself.) To avoid the derailment of your clever weight loss plan by a licensed doctor, wear a weight belt under your hospital gown.

2. If you are an actress with an athletic if not perfectly normal body who wishes to appear anorexic, begin by conveying an initial air of bulk through the use of heavy sweaters and body padding. As the film and your dramatized eating disorder progress, shed the baggy clothes for strappy tank tops. The moment your friends, your volleyball coach, and complete strangers compliment you on your “newly” slender frame, slap on the gray concealer and thin out your hair for a gaunt, sunken, decidedly anorexic look!

3. If you want to kill your anorexic best friend and get away with it, be sure that her body is sufficiently starved of proper nutrients before arranging for her to be hit by a car. Her immediate death will be attributed not to the impact of the car but to the symptoms of her self-inflicted eating disorder.

4. After divorcing her mother and moving 2,000 miles away, reunite with your anorexic daughter by taking her out for dinner. Feel free to extend an invitation to your young, thin and genetically blessed new girlfriend, as well.

5. If you want your psychologically disturbed daughter to overcome her eating disorder, tell her to eat more.

So, I’ve decided to accept the fact that I am 190 pounds and no longer fit into things labeled “Medium,” “Slim Fit” or “28X32.”

(For those of you who don’t believe I am 190 pounds – and I don’t really believe it myself – I’m going to post some pictures soon. I took the picture in the new banner on Friday night, and there is obviously some major back fat going on there, but some full frontals are on the horizon.)

Part of this acceptance involves throwing out my old clothes and replacing them with work-appropriate shirts that don’t cut off circulation to my arms and work-appropriate pants that don’t unintentionally showcase my package. Work-appropriate, people. It’s the name of the game.

Today, I went to Tysons Corner with my boyfriend and some friends and came home with a pair of chinos from Banana Republic, two pairs of pants from Brooks Brothers, and three shirts from Martin + Osa. Whereas the old Toby would have purchased the one Oxford button-down that was somehow slutty, the new Toby actually bought things that fit. I am very proud of myself and can’t wait to shove these overpriced clothes into the back of my closet where they will never be seen by the light of day again.

Does my back look fat?
I took this picture today, having realized that I am getting closer and closer to the V-shape that has previously eluded me. I could just be getting fat though. I probably won’t know until it is too late.
Addendum: I forgot the obvious joke: I need a nice strong back because I am always on it!

All of my friends (aka Cyber Agatha and Rusty) know that I have astoundingly bad taste in music. Although there are a few exceptions here and there, my “Top 25 Most Played” playlist in iTunes is dominated by Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears and, inexplicably, Christy Carlson Romano.
(Technically, my No. 1 most played song is “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by the Beach Boys – the only not-entirely-shameful favorite on the list. The play count amounts to 348, only because I passed out drunk after unintentionally setting it to repeat.)
That said, you will never believe the playlist I created for my workout yesterday. And by “playlist I created” I mean “individual song I chose to play on repeat.” It goes a little something like this:

Who is that girl I see, staring straight back at me?
Why is my reflection someone I don’t know?

Recognize it yet? No? Surely you, too, have heard this in a TJ Maxx recently.

Must I pretend that I’m someone else for all time?
When will my reflection show who I am inside?

It is, of course, everyone’s favorite body dysmorphic anthem, “Reflection” – as sung by Christina Aguilera on Disney’s “Mulan” soundtrack!
This song is completely inappropriate for weightlifting purposes, and yet, somehow, it motivated me throughout a grueling chest/back/traps/rear delts workout. I almost fell off the incline bench when I spotted myself looking all ripped and mean and angry in the mirror and then realized I was casually mouthing the words to the “Mulan” theme song like the huge fag that I am.

Wow, it’s amazing what steroids you can do in two months!
Now that I’ve ballooned to a swollen 160 pounds – a far cry from my 145-pound days back in January – I can look back and nervously laugh at the countless nights spent in front of my tri-fold mirror, crying the tears of a body dysmorphic clown.
Of course, I still glare with disgust at my nude reflection every evening before drunkenly passing out in my bed, but I consider this behavior to be more along the lines of “constructive self-criticism” than “a somatoform disorder featuring a disruptive preoccupation with some imagined defect in appearance.” Semantics, really.
The benefits of my reckless but ultimately unsatisfying pursuit of physical perfection are many. My arms look better in T-shirts, my ass looks better in jeans, and my chest bounces up and down when I walk down a Metro escalator. And the best part: In another month, I’ll look even better! Boy, does it sure suck to be you.
Strangely, there are a few drawbacks of having a body as hot as mine. Consider the following:

1. Instances of sexual harrassment have dramatically (and unwelcomingly) increased.
2. My ass no longer squeezes into briefs purchased for me by my mother when I was eight years old.
3. An adoring but nonetheless creepy Mexican guy stares at me when I’m at the gym.

I’ve paid the costs of being a literary genius for nearly all of my adult life (read: two years), but only now do I face the penalties that come of possessing a flawless physique. Life can be so very cruel.