Tuesday, December 30, 2008

At 34 and Lycra

Here I find myself, again. Same old 4x4 cell, twin hooks, opposing mirrors, infinite images of mine in views not available elsewhere. Not much to complain though; even the predicament I find myself in seems eerily familiar. The sight is far from promising. From the top, a gene pool that has fueled multiple fronts in Male Pattern Baldness. A societal DNA that encourages newly weds to binge on the good stuff; layers of jowl, chin and belly not seen since birth. Now the ignominy of having to discard clothes no more than a few months old. My missus patiently awaits me on the outside. I need to break the news gently. The 34" pair she had lovingly picked, is no more a zip and clasp case. I feel a sigh coming.

Ground O is the midriff. Once skinned to the ribs, now flubber cushions the bones beneath. The railroad that ought to take YKK upstate, lies asunder. A sharp and prolonged exhalation might help, but the twain never get close enough to spirit the rake away. So here I stand, stripped to the jocks, retching and huffing as the blob that passes for abs refuses to sink the last few inches of some prêt-à-porter. The last mile to the clasps now a mile too far, the once smartly laid out trouser now no more than a gaggle of folds below my knee, like the lingering scar of a filariasis attack.

Yet truth is difficult to swallow, for with it I injest my pride as well. So I play a game of "what-if". My mind races as I factor-in inter alia gym jaunts, skipped meals and a lower ferment intake well into the next quarter resulting in a receded waistline, thus justifying the foresight to invest (heavily) in trousers that would be a wraparound, as and when it fit well. I am sure that would not be a problem; just a wee matter of ridding myself of love handles. This pair is, after all, meant for me. Provided, of course, it fit. Or even let me breathe without squeezing my innards to a third.

The logic is compelling. Lehman, my brother. Now I feel ya. You sold mortgage that never fit, praying the user would fatten himself to justify affordability; I buy garbage that never fit, hoping to thin to justify affordability. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

The PYT plugging the brand stares down from the low ceiling, a well held pout matching a figure made to slip in like a glove. The ranch hand she has managed to clamber onto doesn't look too bad either. Get a room, you two.

Decision time. I wonder how this would go; would I splurge on vanity of a time and shape no more, or retreat against the reality that stares back at me ad infinitum? Do I sensibly buy the corduroy that, in addition to being simple to operate, might even double as a mainsail, or else picture myself reinventing into a lean mean 34, the erstwhile booty size of yours truly.

I surrender. Too many well intentioned "buys" line my cupboards. I had long since given into the very unglamorous world of stitch to size. The world of ready-wear as alien as hair care. Yet, missus proposed, hence this return. I exchange the old for a new and wider; my wife sports a grin, the salesman a I-told-you-so. As I step back in, ready to clothe my fate, the associate beckons. "You might like this Sir", and thrusts another pair onto my arm. "It's Lycra, stretchable".

True. It does. 34", and fits like a glove. I feel alive.

The pair stuck to the ceiling can go fly kite.