Taking Sexy Back

To all the voluptuous, sexy people out there, be warned: the mall is not a safe place for you any more. As I voluptuous, sexy individual myself, I am giving you my first-hand testimony; this is not merely a regurgitation of something I heard from my local eye-witness news fear segment. This summer, put away those shorts and tank tops for a nice turtleneck and full length jeans. Think fashion à la Queen Victoria, not fashion à la Paris Hilton. I know, you've got a good body and you want to show it off (I too am the proud owner of a gym membership), but safety first, people! It's time to take sexy back...take it back home, and leave it there!

Needing (ironically enough) to restock my supply of protein powder (a supplement I take after my workouts), I headed to the GNC® at the Cerritos Mall. Traveling through the food court, I passed by Hot Dog on a Stick®, and a cosmic struggle ensued upon my shoulders.

Demon on left shoulder: It's 90F outside!
[Demon's European cousin: That's 32C!]
Angel on right shoulder: Empty calories, empty calories.
Demon: Hot Dog on a Stick® makes the best lemonade, and you know it.
Angel: Do you want people calling you "lard-O"? You're going to blow up like a balloon, and you'll need to buy new pants. Think of how much it will cost you to replace all your pants!
[For an Angel, he really seemed to rely on shame and greed as motivators.]
Demon: One lemonade never hurt anyone.
Angel: You're on the road to Type II Adult onset diabetes, my friend.
Demon: Cherry lemonade. They sell cherry.
Angel: Whose advice can you trust more? I've got the harp and halo, he's going back to fire and brimstone.
JT: I'm sorry, but he sold me on the cherry lemonade.

So I queued up behind what I assumed were a middle aged man and his two children. Then the "father" noticed the two kids—and me behind them—and in his most avuncular tone said, "you two in line? Go ahead of me." Then he turned to me and with a smile remarked, "Gotta let the kids have their hotdogs." I returned the smile and nodded my head.

How rare for a person to show altruism, even in such a small way, I observed.

The stranger proceeded to make small talk, commenting on my biceps, which were plainly visible in my tank top. "You've also got a nice chest," he continued, "do you do sports?" I replied in the negative, explaining that I am rather lumbering, and so prefer exercise that relies less heavily on physical coordination (things like swimming, running, weight lifting).

"Really? You should put that muscle to use. You really should try a sport," he retorted. The stranger continued to get stranger and stranger with each word the emanated from his mouth.
What have I gotten myself into? I wondered as the apprehension set in. Is this the way that homosexuals pick up on one another, or is this just a very garrulous man? Why can't that Hot Dog on a Stick® girl pour lemonade and mete out change a little faster? How long am I going to be in this line? Should I try to avoid talking to him? If he's just a friendly guy, I don't want to offend, but if he's coming on to me, I definitely don't want to encourage him...

Thus was the state of affairs in my teeming brain during the eternities that passed as the Hot Dog on a Stick® girl filled orders. Because I was preoccupied trying to listen to the man's questions and generate answers, I didn't really have enough spare mental capacity to contrive a way of escape from that tortuous conversation. Maybe that was his plan: engross me in his web of creepy interlocution just enough to prevent me from figuring a way out.

"Hey! I know just the sport for you! You should take up body building. It doesn't require alot of coordination, and you could continue working out like you do now. How much do you weigh? 135? No! Really? Ida guessed 160. You look 25 pounds lighter; you must just have that kind of frame. Now, imagine if you bulked up a bit, to say, 180. You'd look like 205. That can be a real psychological advantage, do you get me? You'd go in there in a lower weight division, and all the guys would be like, 'hey, weigh him again, he looks too big to be competing in our weight class.' That would psych those other guys out."

On and on he droned, as if it were a stroke of genius that body building is an appropriate sport for someone who works out. Despite my best protestations that I had no inclination to gain any more weight, and that I was very happy at 135, he continued. By this point, he had gotten his lemonade; and I, mine, so I felt the urge to just run away. Yet part of me feared that he could have simply been a genuinely friendly guy, and part of me was totally eating up the compliments. In addition to noticing my arms and pecs, he said that I had good calves (another advantage for me, should I decide to pursue a career in the illustrious world of competitive body building); but the coup de grace was that he mistook me for a high schooler. It's hard to resist conversations with even the creepiest of the creepy when they subtract eight or nine years off your actual age.

When he mentioned a high school body builder that he knew and asked which gym I work out at, even my ego couldn't keep me there. What is he doing hanging around with high schoolers—and worse, why was he being so chatty with me if he thought I was a minor?!? Pedophile alert! I said I really had to get going [for my own safety], and I scurried away to GNC.

It looks like my domestic partner beaters will have to remain underwear (not outerwear) for the rest of the summer (except maybe to the gym). That, and I need to buy some creep-O repellent.

Friends, you have got to be careful out there this summer. There are alot of weirdos among us who don't know how to behave properly, or in the words of Justin Timberlake himself, "them other f**ckers dunno how to act."