“Lost?”
“Yeah, like directionless. I feel like I'm getting older and have very little to show for it.”
Chloe looks around the café. “This is not nothing, Marcello. Do you know how happy this place makes people. And not just because of your mum’s chocolate croissants.”
“It's not work that I'm worried about, or rather, feeling restless about. It's... it's me.”
Chloe cocks her head. “In what way?”
“Well.” I open my mouth and almost tell her about how pathetic I feel still being single, still living with my mother, still not knowing what the hell I'm doing with my life. But I push those words aside and say something else instead. Something I feel will be easier to talk about and not drag me into the pit of misery I already feel I have a toe in. “I'm not happy with my body.”
Chloe's eyebrows shoot upwards. “Your body?”
“Yeah.” I grip my stomach which protrudes over the tied apron strings. “I've put on a bit of weight recently and I just feel very out of shape and very... insecure about it.”
I'm not lying. I do feel all those things. I just can't honestly say that's what keeps me up at night, so late that waking for any of my seven alarms is a Herculean struggle.
“You know, I think you look great,”Chloe says deliberately and carefully. “When we first met, I thought you were kinda cute, dad bod and all.”
“Dad bod?”I wince. “But I'm not even a dad.”
“It's a compliment!”Chloe insists. “And did you not hear the part where I said I thought you were cute!”
A smile breaks out despite myself. “Really?”
“Yes.” Chloe nods and then moves to the coffee machine to rescue the espresso shot that's long been ready. “Espresso macchiato?” she asks me.
I nod and watch as she goes about heating up milk.
“You shouldn't fall foul of toxic masculinity and the same idiotic diet culture that tells women they need to have small bodies in order to be worthy.”
“It's not that. At least I don't think it's that. I just feel... out of shape.”
It's another true statement. One that hits very close to exactly how I feel about everything, not just my body. It’s like I can’t find my place in this world. Like I’m a jigsaw piece trying to fit into a puzzle that isn’t missing me.
“Then do something about it,” Chloe says as she scoops out foam to sit on top of my shot of espresso. She hands the glass of coffee over to me.
“Like what?” I ask, although it feels like a stupid question. I'm not an idiot. I know I could start running or join a gym or maybe even a football club. I liked playing football in my teens and twenties.
“Set yourself a challenge,” she says as she leans back against the counter opposite me.
“Like running a marathon?”
Chloe wrinkles her nose. “That sounds boring... and predictable. How about... doing a triathlon?”
“A triathlon?" I say and bring the glass away from my mouth, not ready to take a sip while I'm shocked by her suggestion.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Because it would likely kill me,” I scoff and then finally take a hot swig of my coffee.
“No, it wouldn't.” She swipes at me with a tea towel. “You'd train for it. But rather than just going to the gym or running or swimming for no good reason, you'll actually have a goal in mind for all that exercise. And a good reason to also start eating healthier, perhaps.”
I take another sip of coffee so I can think over Chloe's suggestion. It doesn't sound terrible.
I mean, yes, it does sound terrible, awful,horrible, in terms of the actual effort it will require, not to mention the aches and pains that will come along the way, but it does sound like the kind of challenge I need. It sounds like the kick up the backside I've been hoping somebody would come along and give me. But that's not going to happen. It's an ironically depressing thought but nobody is coming to shove their foot up my butt. If somebody's got to kick me into action, into changing for the better, it's going to be me.
It’s just a shame I struggle with motivation, focus and commitment – all the things required for such a challenge.
