I’m a man who subscribes to men’s interest magazines. I speak her sex language. I control my appetite. I save my interval training for the evening hours, when my body temperature is at or near its peak. I wow the crowd at karaoke and run trails like a mountain goat. I keep a diet-and-exercise log. I make a mint moonlighting. I kick it in Croatia and kill it on the court.
I use under-eye patches to combat puffiness. I use paper towels or my pinky to open doors of public bathrooms. I never let my toddler use my iPad. I make desserts that renew my will to win and breakfast smoothies that tap my secret source. If the woman I was dating used the same perfume as my ex, I’d offer to go shopping with her for a new fragrance.
Instead of dining with exes, I meet them for coffee. Instead of bacon cheese dogs, I eat chili cheese dogs. Instead of ranch dressing, I use hot sauce, ketchup, salsa, yellow mustard, horseradish, or red-wine vinegar.
I write songs on my mountain bike. I match my tie width to my jacket lapel. I do trap bar dead lifts, medicine ball slams, barbell rows, and cable core presses. Immediately after my workout I consume an easily digestible source of protein, and a few hours later I eat a meal rich in branched-chain amino acids. I eat one and a half cups of cooked spinach daily. I prevent molting by maintaining the moisture I already have. I wear shoes inspired by the human spine and embrace the ’50s Dad aesthetic.
I pair Oregon wines with pepper-crusted tuna. I use body wash with date-seed powder. I take 8,000 milligrams of Echinacea daily, for endurance. To avoid scratching my sex partners in tender areas, I keep my fingernails neatly trimmed. I button all the buttons on double-breasted pea coats—except when I sit down, when I unbutton the bottom button for more maneuverability. I give the keyboard of my office computer a weekly wipe-down.
I serve it up family style. I mix up my mash. I finish with contrast. I never forget the acid.
I encourage my unemployed friends to spend their free time volunteering. If my wife ever lost interest in sex, I’d take her on a three-to-four-night sexcation. I keep my digital life organized and run mud runs. I forget the fake butter on movie popcorn. I avoid seasonal flab with four metabolism-revving moves. Move one: barbell squat. Move two: pull-up. Move three: close-grip barbell bench press. Move four: farmer’s walk. As I work out I repeat phrases to myself such as “I feel good” or “I’m swift and strong.” When my heart skips a beat, I try to think of it like my heart is rebooting.
I asked my doctor if I’m a candidate for the HPV vaccine. I conquered my food cravings on the way to the corner office. I chose glasses that complemented both my skin tone and facial structure. I built mental toughness, which helped me power through plateaus. When my new partner asked me about my sexual history, I said, “I had some wild times back in the day, but then I realized I wanted something better,” instead of, “I’ve slept with precisely 34 women.” I’ve trained with the most secretive trainer in the world. And maybe the toughest.
I eat Greek yogurt before going to parties. I limit my bread and pasta to special occasions only. I deserve the best life.
I take it outside. I diversify. I fire myself up. I’m relentless.
Imagine achieving everything you’ve ever wanted: enormous fame, a massive personal fortune, a beautiful fiancée, and the respect and admiration of millions of Americans. Thanks to the men’s interest magazines I subscribe to, I’ve got all those things. And I’ve also got a watch made from scratch-resistant, triple-coated, anti-reflective sapphire crystal. It boosts my look, even when I dress down.