Puttin' on the Ritz - Crackers
This past winter in Ottawa has given me cause for concern this spring as I gradually try on my summer wardrobe. Yup. Slogging through piles of snow to work, a brisk 30 minute slog - each way, has rewarded me with East German swimmer thighs and a Jamaican sprinter butt.
I look good, but not in my last year's summer wardrobe. In my cream coloured pants that I wore to the Police concert so I'd look cooler'n Sting (I'm that competitive, seriously), I look like Randy from Trailor Park Boys. With a shirt on, I look like my Uncle Mac.
But it's all muscle, so now I have to go out and buy new bottoms to go with my tops, which, of course, haven't changed in fit. What's it take to brisk walk into a C-cup in this town, anyway? But I shouldn't complain, I guess. When they drop (and everything does, you know, check out an 80 year old woman and an 80 year old man in matching bikinis like I did last summer when I was in Toronto and you'll see what I mean), my breasts will just bounce off my ribs instead of my knees. And that's gotta be good, right? Guys? Am I right? Good?
In the meantime, on my way to work I go by a dry out house for men. This morning, they were all out having a smoke (it must be a bugger of a thing to try and quit smoking in AA), and when I walked by in my last summer's jeans, there were actual catcalls and low whistles. I was embarrassed because I turn into a shrinking violet at the most inopportune times (I'm like the dancing frog from the Bug's Bunny show that way) and I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. And then tunnel me through the ground and bring me up right at the corner Bridgehead so I could be among my own kind (politically correct, earth mother types with whom I have nothing in common) and not feel the urge to shriek, "Not flattered, you sexist goons!"
Still, I reasoned, for I'm still capable of reason, I was kind of asking for it. I mean, my pants are so tight if I breathe out my buttons will pop so hard they're likely to smash a window. And I didn't want to discourage them from trying to get out there and meet women (it's tough for newly non-drinking men to meet women - although, somebody should tell men that women don't like that kind of attention when they're out being people, as opposed to... uh... I dunno... what DO men think women are up to when they're out and about, anyway?) so I let it slide. Gawd forbid I should send a sobered up dude back to the bottle by being a Feminist on his first day out dry.
Good thing, too, because just as I was getting past the gang, a young fellow in his early twenties said quietly, "Hey, sorry, eh?" and jerked his head toward the hooters and howlers. So I gave him a blow job. HAHAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding. I gave him a big smile and wink and thought, "What a nice young man". Then, of course, as I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and they all stopped caterwauling, I thought, "Omigawd... I probably reminded him of his poor old ma back at the van down by the river and he was thinking, "Ooh, lady. Classy was either 20 pounds ago or two sizes back. Have some self respect."
I either gotta get out my head or get me some clothes that fit.
