The jarring electronic sound of my alarm rudely awakens me from my soporific reverie – 7:30am, time to get up for work. I hesitate for 30 seconds, indulging myself one last time of the suddenly unbelievably warm and comfortable bed, before throwing back the covers and braving the cold room.
I step into the bathroom, and weigh myself, making a note of the readout on a spreadsheet I’ve got printed out and stuck to the back of the door. I like to track the progress of my exercise and nutrition plan that I’ve been on for the last 6 months. Satisfied that I’ve not become morbidly obese overnight, I brush my teeth, before washing down my various supplements – a natural testosterone booster to help develop my physique, a multivitamin, and my daily dose of Propecia, to help prevent hair loss.
Brain beginning to gear up, pondering the day ahead, I remove my glasses and put my contact lenses in – people tell me I look better without glasses. I’ve got no bags under my eyes, and I look refreshed. The custom ear plugs I had made really do their job, and the ZMA capsules I take before bed time ensure I stay deeply asleep all night.
I leave the bathroom, and head over to the mirror in my room, where my hair straighteners have been heating up for the last few minutes. My normal hair is a curly, wavy, fluffy mess – it can’t be persuaded to do much except sit in an obstinately lumpy pile on my head. Spraying my hair with an oil spray to put some moisture into it, I spend the next few minutes pulling the hot plates through my hair, section by section, smoothing and straightening out the unsightly waves into sleek, easily styled locks.
I return to the bathroom, where I first apply another product to my hair to smooth it out, followed by a texturising paste to arrange it in a fashionable style (although not too fashionable – I don’t want to look like those 20-something try-hards with their stupidly overexaggerated cuts), before finishing it with some hairspray to keep it in place throughout the day. I look over the result with a critical eye – it’ll need cutting again in a day or two, my weekly appointment will be due soon.
Taking my salon-bought edging trimmers from my washbag, I trim my beard down to an even length all over, before meticulously shaping and edging my sideburns, moustache and goatee. The stubble on my neck has only a day’s growth on it, so I leave it where it is, preferring the slightly more rugged look that (I believe) it imparts. I’m looking healthy and tanned today – the sunbed session I had at the weekend combined with the tan maximising lotion I use, that I have every weekend, has done its job. I rub a little moisturiser into my face to combat any dryness before heading over to the wardrobe to get dressed.
Casting a selective eye over the array of hand-tailored shirts inside that have just come back freshly pressed and starched from the dry cleaners, I select a black one for today, and fit my magnetic stays into the collar to keep it nice and high, framing my face. I roll each sleeve exactly 3 times to just above my elbow – it enables me to type more easily at work and accentuates my upper arms. Pulling out a pair of hand-tailored pants, I tuck my shirt in with militaristic precision, ensuring that the placket and fly line up – when I subsequently tug my belt through the loops around my waist and do it up, I turn it until the edge of the buckle forms a perfect straight line with them.
I pack my gym bag for my session after work. It will be one of four this week. I have my workout and my targets all planned out already on a Google spreadsheet – it is important to measure and track your progress, so you can ensure you are always progressing, increasing the size of your muscles and improving your physique. I place into my designer, leather gym bag my small 0.25kg and 0.5kg plates that I bought especially from the internet to ensure that I do not hinder my progress by trying to increase my weight in increments that are too large, before using my extra-long shoe horn to slip on my dress shoes, shining from the polish applied the night before, on to my feet without having to bend down too much and crease my shirt, and without breaking down the backs of them.
Pulling on my full length, woolen coat, which I had adjusted at the tailor the previous week to fit better, I take my black leather rabbit fur-lined gloves from the pocket and pull them on. Surveying myself one final time in the mirror, I step out for the bracing walk to the tube with my housemate. The whole routine has taken approximately 40 minutes.
On the walk to the station, I receive some covert, and many clearly not-so-covert checkouts from a large number of the women we walk past. I notice each one, my mood become more buoyant, my stride more confident. My friend, not an ugly guy by any means, but of mainly average appearance, receives none, but notices all the glances being sent in my direction. We arrive at the station and descend to the platform, settling in to await the next train. My confidence levels compel me to make random small talk to a group of girls stood next to us – they giggle and smile. I make strong, unwavering eye contact with a cute girl over the other side of the track, and give her a big grin, which is returned.
We discuss various things as we wait, eventually arriving on to the topic of women we are dating, and how best to handle them. Various “game” techniques are brought up, with me attempting to instruct my friend in tips and tricks which I know to have merit in gaining the upper hand in the ceaseless power struggle between the sexes, especially those to do with improving his appearance, style and physique. After a few minutes of discussion however, he becomes agitated, and soon begins to dismiss my suggestions.
“Why would I listen to you anyway. You’re just naturally good looking, you don’t even have to try. You’re not like me. You don’t need this self improvement stuff.”