Today Greg and I watched Mr. Nude USA on television. We were lifting weights. Our shirts were off. I got potato salad stuck in my chest hair (unrelated).
I’ve taken to watching a lot more television than I used to. It’s not so much that I want to do it, it’s just that the immediate availability of televised bliss in this house versus our last dwelling has basically made it inevitability. During today’s weightlift-o-rama (through which I destroyed my ability to walk up and down stairs by working out the lower body) Greg and I watched a show in MTV about Mr. Nude USA seeing a counselor. He was talking to her about his insecurities and how it sucks to have a girlfriend who doesn’t want her boyfriend to shake his lure in front of frothing hordes of nubile women (go figure).
So as Mr. Nude alternated between talking about how he doesn’t feel validated unless he’s shucking the banana hammock off his tube steak for money and how he should never have gotten involved with a woman who has a shred of dignity, I was left to stare at my own lack of defined pecs or biceps. That’s ok though because I don’t have a complex. Right?