Every January, after peeling off my Christmas sweater and shaking out all the sugar cookie crumbs, a pale, unchiseled torso frowns glumly back at me through the mirror.
“You’ll start working out this year,” I’ll tell myself. “You’re gonna get more ripped than Carrot Top.”
Of course, I’m lying to myself. By the time I locate a gym, squeeze into an old summer camp T-shirt, admire how buff it makes me look and, panting, crawl the 20 feet to my car, I barely have enough energy to finish chewing the days-old half of a Snickers bar I found under my bed.
And besides, “Lost” is on!
At this stage in my life, the only practical benefit to regular exercise is improving my sexual attractiveness. (Health? I’m good, thanks. I voted for Obama, and he’s got me covered there.) I’ll pick up a dumbbell when the other channels of attracting women become obsolete.
I’m just not convinced the only route to women is on a treadmill. I’ve been working on a formula that includes dim lighting, alcohol, a sense of humor — maybe some cash if I make it to a second date — and that seems to work well enough for me.
If pop culture is any indicator of female sexual desires, then Icabod is in. Coldplay’s Chris Martin clings to that microphone pole as if a strong breeze might blow him away, and Joseph Gordon Levitt’s starvation is so severe he constantly sweats.
If a majority of Twilight readers are members of “Team Edward,” clearly there’s still hope for the pale and frail.
And if you’re still worried women want a bigger guy, sheep, shaggy dogs and wild turkeys provide us with an excellent solution: layering. Women deceive with makeup – why can’t we do it with thick, wool sweaters?
The recent drop in temperature has given us a great excuse to hide our bony or flabby frames behind big, heavy coats. Never mind if it’s only 55 degrees – in Florida, that’s tundra weather. The ladies can only assume those sweatpants are covering the calves of a bike messenger.
Now, I have to admit I’m not completely happy with myself. There’s always room for improvement, sure. But I’m going to feast on dust-covered caramel and try to predict Ben Linus’ next move on “Lost” for as long as I can still get away with it.
See you not in the gym in 2010.
