I have started doing curls at night. Bicep builders, curls for the girls.
A twenty-five pound weight, up down, up down, thirty times each arm.
Then, I make a muscle and stare in the mirror.
My magnificent guns of the past are long gone, now buried under a couple layers or fat and loose, stretch-marked skin. This may be the last year I take my shirt off at the beach. One day my skin may flop around like an accordion.
I’m going to have to attract women with my mind.
I’m not giving up on my body–I can always get plastic surgery
or maybe take some steroids. Never say die.