Them Bear Necessities

 

Venturing out into darkest L.A. on Saturday night, I wound up at the Eagle for a special event known simply as “The Meat Rack.” Featuring scantily clad and particularly muscle-bound hotties on all sides of the bar, the small shack of a bar bustled with more uniformed men than a New York City holiday parade under threat by terrorists. Seeing such a crowd brings about multiple reactions. On the one hand, I really DO enjoy the eye-candy. Check out THAT muscle stud! Hairy chest… muscles on his muscles… and a close-connection to Viagra, made apparent since he is wearing absolutely nothing more than a sock – just one.

 

On the other hand, I decided early that under absolutely NO circumstances would my shirt be coming off for fear that all music and movement would come crashing to a halt at the revelation of non-rock-hard pecs and a bit of belly-budge. I can just hear the claxon sirens going off, alerting everyone – Cellulite! Cellulite!!! Cover your eyes!!!! The horror… the horror!

 

Meeting up with my friend, Joe, and his new kinda-sorta-maybe-could-be-dating-material, Mike, we had a great time chatting and watching the crowd. Mike seemed like a really nice guy. A former twink now in his 40’s, he still has a pretty face and a body carved out of alabaster. Smooth and white, the man has absolutely NO body fat, and firm, firm sculpted features. The final blow to my self-esteem came after several beers when he took off his shirt to reveal what I had expected – a perfect PERFECT body.

 

BASTARD!

 

Both Mike and Joe are, like so many other guys standing around, muscle-bound and just yummy to look at. Scanning the floor for the shattered pieces of my self-esteem, I was determined to identify his Achilles Heal if for no other reason than to resurrect some reason to keep on living. As we looked around at all the muscle-studs, I commented rather politely that I would love to look like that, but I am just not willing to give up eating real food. Mike chuckled a bit, while Joe laughed outright. “What’s so funny?” I asked, hoping for him to reveal that he threw up after every meal. “I eat nonstop!” he said rather embarrassed. “Oh…really?” I asked with all the diplomacy of a southern debutante who is really communicating something more along the lines of “why don’t you go jump under a moving bus, DAAAAAAA’alin’?” “Yep,” he said. “If I don’t eat constantly, I just turn skinny-skinny-skinny.” “Oh DARN!” I said with far less subtlety than my prior mannerisms would allow. “I HATE that for you. It must SUCK to either be perfectly thin or a muscle-stud god!” I shouted through a half-cocked smile that revealed my urgency to see him die a slow and painful torturous death while I stood over him eating a Carl’s Junior Prime Rib Six Dollar Burger. 

 

However, as the conversation continued, I learned one key factor that gave me hope. “I only work out an hour and fifteen minutes,” he said. “OK,” I retorted while keeping my seething nature under check as much as I possibly could. “Per MONTH? Per WEEK?” I pressed him, hoping to fish out the key bit of information that would allow me to declare my victory in the moment.  “Every day,” he said, delivering his own head to me on a symbolic platter as I began performing a minimalistic dance of Salome. The man works out every day – EVERY day. Can you imagine?

 

Now, don’t get me wrong – I recognize the fact that many people would call me a gym bunny. I hit the gym between 3 and 4 times a week, switching back and forth between cardio, weights, and yoga. Back when my life allowed me to work out 6 times a week, I weighed in at ten pounds lighter, and could push myself further in the yoga studio than I can now. But the fact is, I have a life, a husband, a career, hobbies, and artistic endeavors that put demands on my time. COULD I have a rock-hard killer body like that if I wanted to? Maybe… but at what price? What would I have to give up? What meetings would I have to miss? What projects would I not be able to accomplish? What would have to be put on hold or dropped altogether? Ultimately, to me, it ain’t worth it. Sure, they may have great pecs, but I have a HUUUUUUUUUUGE…

 

… HOUSE! The Claycomb House takes constant maintenance. Whether it be restoration work, garden work, or just the regular maintenance of cleaning things up and putting them away, the house is a huge project, and a magnificent accomplishment – something most of these guys won’t ever have. Sure, they have washboard abs, but I have a really impressive…

 

… CAREER. Sure, I am a government employee. But I am proud of the fact that I use my anal-retentiveness to help make alcohol and drug programs available for people in the County. Let’s face it, there is a good percentage of those muscle-bound studs who either have needed or will need some rehab. Sure, they have asses that you could bounce a quarter off of, but I have a much bigger…

 

… BANK ACCOUNT! Am I rich? No. But I can afford to do what I want and to have the things that I want. I can’t tell you the amount of times I have run into muscle-stud go-go boy only to discover that he lives in a one-room apartment studio with a mattress in the middle of the room. Not quite so glamorous, eh? Sure, they can have just about anybody they want in the bar. But I have Paul. 

 

I win!