sanctioned touching

Monday, sep. 30, 2002   |   0 comments

I’ve fallen off the gym wagon in a serious way, what with school and dying of phlegm and … hamburgers. But here’s the thing: Even though I’ve neglected to pump iron, in the literal sense, for about two months now, there appears to be no discernible change in the size of my musculature.

When I flex in the mirror, which I do whenever “Gilmore Girls” is on, my arms look exactly the same (i.e., really, really hot, my god) as they did when I was regularly hefting weights. Which means that the lifting has had little to no impact on my “cutness”, at least nothing the human eye could detect. There is no “before and after” — I’m all “after”.

So to those of you whom I forced to feel my muscle and admire the amazing transformation I’d undergone since frequenting the gym, I apologize. Apparently you were squeezing me under false pretenses.

And to the rest of you, a warning: If I ask you to feel my arm from here on out, it isn’t about the muscle. I only want your hands on me. Is that so wrong? No harm done, right? If I demand that you fondle my “tickle machine”, however, you of course are allowed to call the police. Or my bluff!