Bad Romeo Christmas: A Starcrossed Anthology (Starcrossed #4)(58)
And it's this pathological need for annual self-evaluation that currently has me standing in front my mirror in my boxer briefs, wondering why the hell I'm freaking out about going to a New Year's Eve costume party.
To put things in context, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a superhero. Badly. I mean, sure, I also wanted to be Diego from Dora the Explorer, because who wouldn't want to hang with a cool talking backpack? But still . . .
My hero envy was Serious Business.
I was so obsessed with it, I begged Mom to take me to the X-ray lab at the hospital where she worked, so I could be exposed to Hulking levels of radiation. When that didn't pan out, I mixed up superhero serums from the fridge and pantry, certain that the worse they tasted, the more likely they were to work. In reality, the only power I developed was the ability to vomit violently until my poor abused stomach purged every ounce of the disgusting concoctions made from orange juice and barbecue sauce.
Despite my failure to achieve hero-dom, my room remained plastered with posters of Superman, Spiderman, The Avengers, X-Men, and the Justice League. I even had She-Hulk and Wonder Woman, and not just because those ladies were super hot. I also respected them as kickass heroes who didn't take crap from anyone. Even back then, I appreciated powerful women.
My parents weren't at all surprised when I begged them for superhero outfits for every costume party and Halloween, and by the time I hit double digits, I had a stack of them. But even though wearing those costumes made me feel special and powerful, other kids thought the scrawny Jewish kid with glasses didn't fit the hero description, and I got teased every single time, even by my friends.
One Halloween when I was ten, I dressed as the Green Lantern. Unfortunately, Darren Pike, an * sixteen-year-old who lived in my building, had the same idea. He went berserk when he saw that we matched and punched me in the face so hard, he broke my glasses and my nose.
As he stood over me, ranting that I was a 'limp-dick imposter', it wasn't lost on me that even though he was a total douchebag who didn't think twice about assaulting a kid half his size, his buff physique made him look like a hero, and no matter how much I loved these characters, I never would.
That's when I realized why people always gave me such a hard time. Wearing those costumes while being a less-than-perfect physical specimen insulted the whole genre. Weaklings weren't heroes. At best, they were sidekicks. But let me ask you this: how far would Batman have gotten without Alfred? And would James Bond be anywhere near as kickass if it weren't for the geeks who made his gadgets? The short answer is 'no f*cking way.' But do those backstage guys get any credit? No. Only the ripped dudes got to wear the fancy outfits and ride off with the beautiful women.
After I understood that, I stopped wearing the hero costumes altogether. I got interested in Star Wars and Star Trek, and discovered that in sci-fi you don't have to meet a particular physical standard in order to play make-believe. I was allowed to be an awkward, four-eyed Luke Skywalker, because Star Wars was for geeks and therefore not cool enough for most people to bother mocking.
So, I embraced my geekdom. Not that I had much choice in the matter. I was shortsighted, smart, hard-working, and the smallest kid in my class until I blossomed at the ripe old age of fifteen.
When I met Elissa for the first time, I was shorter than she was, and in the illustrious words of my warm and supportive father, I looked like ‘a toothpick wrapped in spaghetti’. Elissa, on the other hand, had blossomed early and was not only gorgeous but had a good-looking boyfriend (who turned out to be a cheating dick), and a track star older brother (who was just a regular, garden-variety dick). So when we were paired together in drama club, my first thought was that she'd turn out to be a mean girl who'd destroy me in record time.
To my surprise, she was really nice. And funny. And got me. She was the first girl to look at me like I hadn't just pissed in her cornflakes. Against all odds, we became friends, and then to everyone's surprise, including my own, best friends.
Six months after we met, I finally got that mega-dose of pubescent testosterone I'd been dreaming of since the first grade, and I shot up to being six feet tall within a year. Not only that, but my spaghetti limbs filled out to such an extent, it took me a long time to get used to seeing a well-built man in the mirror every day.
For a while I pretended I was Peter Parker, and the sudden changes were due to a radioactive spider bite, but like Spiderman I was still a geek on the inside.
So, now I have a dilemma.
On Elissa's advice, I've been working out to try and relieve the feelings of inadequacy I've gained from living in Hollywood. I mean, come on. The dude who unclogs the drains at my L.A. pad is a supermodel with a six-pack. Not to mention my girlfriend's latest co-star is a freakishly handsome fitness model who makes me feel like Elmer Fudd. How the hell am I supposed to keep the love of a woman as spectacular as Angel Bell with that kind of competition?
For the past four weeks while Angel has been overseas, I've busted my ass in the gym every day doing sit ups, push ups, bicep curls, and bench presses ... I've done it all. I've even cut back on junk food and started drinking water instead of beer. If I were to brag to my dad about my new routine, I know exactly what he'd say: "So, what? You want a medal? Or a chest to pin in on?"
Well, Pops. I have a chest now, so yeah. Give me a damn medal.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize my body. I've never had muscles like this in my life, and to be honest, they're taking some getting used to. None of my shirts fit anymore, and even though I can get away with my T-shirts being snug, my button-ups won't even ... well ... button up.