With a week and a bit to go until Santa replenishes my socks and jocks supply, I thought I’d trim down a little before the annual Christmas feeding frenzy. So last weekend, I slipped on some lycra bike shorts, chanted “I’m a cyclist!” into the bathroom mirror three times, then waltzed out to the kitchen to impress Long Suffering Wife.
After we’d finished cleaning up the bowl of cereal she’d dropped, she cried, “You’re not going out dressed like that?!”
“I’m a cyclist!” I beamed.
“No,” she replied, “it wasn’t a question. YOU are NOT going out dressed like THAT!”
“Why not?” I asked, thrusting my hips forward to show her how snugly my bike shorts fitted.
She recoiled in horror, “Well they leave nothing to the imagination!” A quick glance in our bedroom mirror revealed that she had a point; and quite clearly, so did I.
Minutes later, sporting a knee length t-shirt, I wandered out to the shed, dug out ‘Pubtruck’ my trusty pushbike and hit the road, where I quickly discovered that I wasn’t a cyclist, but a target.
Taking the hint, I sought refuge on the footpath where the only things I had to pedal around were reversing cars, loose dogs and the sight of numerous folk wandering about in overstrained lycra tights.
Look, as someone who often shops in bare feet, I’m in no position to criticise what people wear in public; so I won’t. But if you’re happy to wander round Gladstone in pants that highlight all your bulges, bumps and bits, well, that’s fine with me! I only wish I had the confidence to join you.
Which I probably will, just as soon as Santa finishes filling my stocking this year, because I know the perfect place to stuff those rolled up socks.