Boy meets thigh

i was my butt was my thighs were the cellulite on the back of my thighs was introduced to andrew wolff at the gym awhile ago.

it was one of the more, shall we say, undignified introductions i have ever had the misfortune to experience. to keep the mortification at bay, i shall force myself to think of it as that all-purpose palliative -- a learning experience.

so this is what i learned.

lesson # 1: shorts from the '80s should remain in the '80s.

two straight weeks of no sunshine = no laundry out to dry

no laundry = dwindling pool of clothes (gym clothes dwindle particularly quickly)

no more gym clothes = mom's pink nike pekpek shorts from the '80s

and when i say pekpek, i mean pekpek. i was actually extra fidgety wearing them around the boxing trainers, but i pek-peked pooh-poohed my discomfort away by reasoning that i'd worn them at least once before, and who cares about scruffy old ex-boxers anyway?

so i thought (almost) nothing of agreeing to a pre-workout stretching session with my trainer, jeff. i love getting stretched -- you just lie there like a log while they do all this physical therapy stuff. i was lying on my belly, face flat on the floor, shorts riding up my (thunder) thighs when one of the other trainers exclaimed, "oy! si andrew wolff!" the other trainers chorused, "pare! andrew! kamusta na?" as a very, very large shadow slowly loomed over me.

crap.

at least, i reasoned as male chitchat ensued, jeff will have the good sense not to introduce me while i'm lying here like a tub of giniling.

lesson # 2: men are dense.

i gave all the non-verbal clues i could in such a position. i kept my face turned away. i clipped my arms tightly to my sides. i clamped my thighs to prevent further riding up of said shorts. i may even have given a warning wiggle or fidget. all to no avail.

"siya nga pala, andrew, papakilala ko sa 'yo si deepa. tiga-gma din siya. deepa, si andrew."

he could have just said, "siya nga pala andrew, hita ni deepa."

i have never taken so long to turn my head in my life. i would rather he have met my toes (they're nice and slim) or my split ends (i have none).

but there was no escaping it. i turned my head. with what dignity i could muster with my face purple and pressed to the floor and my thighs staring him in the face, i smiled and said hi.

lesson # 3: when in doubt, hide.

quicker than you can say "cellulite cream", i whipped my head back and away from him, and cringed. i mean, i'm not a fan, but i didn't want a fine specimen like him to associate my face with those thighs, resplendent with niknik bites and bedimpled with cellulite. (come to think of it, i literally dimpled at him.)

god forbid i ever, ever bump into him again, and my face be replaced in a split second in his memory by quivering, white, jiggly thighs. as we took our places in the ring, i worked extra hard to make my punches as strong as humanly possible, so that he could at least have something else to associate with me. "you're the girl with the kick-ass punches" sounds way better than "you're the girl with the, uh, ass."

lesson # 4: when able, ogle.
(or, select types of men are entitled to as much silicone as they please)

as i said, i'm not a fan. after seeing him in person, i find him a bit of a calamari (as defined by j). but you don't have to be a fan of someone to ogle, right? you can just be a fan of the male species in general? because, as i also said earlier, he is quite a fine specimen. one that boxes shirtless, and wears the biggest size glove, at that.

jeff and i made chismis while said specimen was off crunching granola. "ang laki ng katawan ano? naging girlfriend n'yan si ethel, tapos si gwen," jeff said conspiratorially. "ngayon naman si keanna. dala n'ya nga dito kahapon eh."

hmm. the man does like his silicone, innit? but then, i figured as i ogled all through his ab workout, any man who can bounce a medicine ball off his abs (even the obliques!) can have as much silicone as he damn well pleases.

see? i am so much smarter now.