Work it Big Boy

You know, it’s really not that easy being a guy these days. Every time you turn on the TV there’s another fit, cut, chiselled young hunk brooding in a soap opera, knuckle walking through a music video or swanning around in a commercial like Adonis, Casanova and Dirk Diggler rolled into one. The fact that there is such a proliferation of BLESH (bloke flesh) in 2005 is very VERY disturbing. Never before have we guys been under so much pressure to look good. And don’t even start me about Tom Williams getting his gear off on Dancing With The Stars (yes, it was months ago, but it will remain seared in my memory for ever!). Before that night I lived in a blissful deluded cocoon where I was free to cast a critical eye over women’s hips, thighs, boobs, ankles, lips, bums and flabby arms with impunity, never noticing the overweight jowly barge arse that greeted me in the mirror each morning. But that all changed the night Tom took his tanned toned torso for a trot on the tele.

“Darling what’s that on your chest?”

“What?”

“Those two red marks under what used to be your pecs.”
I looked into the mirror… really looked, and to my absolute horror, the bulging rippling chest of my youth had been replaced by what looked suspiciously like a b cup and if the red welts underneath were anything to go by I was in need of some serious support. I had man boobs and they were almost as big as my girlfriends. Something drastic had to be done. But what? Jenny Craig? Lap band surgey? The Ethiopian no nothing diet? The gym? I couldn’t. Not that. Muscle Marys, hysterically happy instructors bobbing up and down in headsets, he men, lycra and 90’s house music. NO!!!!!

Cut to wobbly flabby man on treadmill wearing JUST SAY NO TO STEROIDS singlet. Everywhere I looked I heard a voice saying “I told you so.” The place was teeming with really good looking cut guys working themselves into a lather. Every few minutes they would play musical bench press; pumping up their chests flirting with the woman nearest to them before moving onto the next apparatus. I was watching this unfold when I overheard two babes next to me.

“Did you hear about Jude and Sienna?”

“No?”

“He cheated on her with the nanny’

“What a rat.”

“What is it with these guys? Why can’t they be faithful?”

And then, just before I lost my footing and was flung off the back of the treadmill it struck me. The more cut and better looking the guy the more likely he is to stray. Conversely the cuddlier and plainer the guy the less likely to stray. (Apart from anything else he would only make it a block before he was puffed) And the best part was women were starting to wise up to it. My God I had a get out of gym-jail go straight to the couch and eat carbs card. My spare tyre didn’t suggest laziness and lack of discipline it was sign of stability and trustworthiness. My barge arse screamed “Ladies I am a rock.” And I definitely shouldn’t be hiding my ampleness under baggy jumpers I should be wearing low cut t shirts and working that babe magnet man cleavage for all its worth.