Monday, September 18, 2000

A night out with Clingy

It was an inevitability that, having been goaded by The Twins into purchasing a shiny, stretchy, clingy shirt, I would eventually have to actually wear the garment. Its debut on the St. Louis club scene was not a particularly auspicious one.

After fretting before the mirror for at least twice the time it ordinarily takes me to prepare for a night on the town (read: ten minutes), I met up with the boys at The Complex for an evening of light beer and heavy dancing. Upon seeing my ensemble, Twin B breathlessly exclaimed those three little words: "You look fat."

"Thank you," I said. "I see you've finally settled on a pattern for your male-pattern baldness."

"Actually," Twin A interjected quickly, "I think it looks pretty good on you. Just hold your breath."

"I am holding my breath," I said. "In fact, I have not exhaled since 1991. I am a miracle of alternative respiration."

I should explain. I am not a big man, and I am not fat by any stretch of the imagination. However, more than a decade of sedentary living and a diet of beer and fried foods has not left me with the much sought-after "six-pack" abs. As beverage analogies go, my belly is more of a two-liter non-returnable.

The Twins chose to see my paunch as a challenge. "Breathe in and hold it," Twin B advised, "and throw your pelvis forward a little bit. Emphasize the package."

Twin A chimed in. "Keep your arms close to your body. Weight on your left foot, right foot slightly forward."

"I came here to cruise," I said, "not to do Pilates!" My protests, however, fell on deaf ears and Ecstacy-addled minds. The Density Duo spent another 10 minutes bending my limbs and posing me by the bar rail. When finally they were satisfied with my stance, they bounded off for the patio, leaving me to hold the pose for all of another 15 seconds, collapsing at last with the celerity of warm Jell-O.

I finished my beer, tipped the bartender a fin and slipped out the door before the boys returned, content to spend the rest of the evening watching Ab-Slider infomercials and munching Fiddle Faddle, the shiny, stretchy, clingy shirt neatly stored in wadded ball at my bedside, my dignity more or less intact and my resolve to redouble my gym ministrations renewed.