Sexiest Man Alive
Early this morning, my chat friends and I were talking about this one particular guy whom we had tagged as the sexiest in the group. It brought to my mind a pillow given to me by someone from way, way back. It says SEXIEST MAN IN THE WORLD with a caricature of a hunk flexing his biceps.
Since the pillow was supposed to be the giver’s personal pillow when he was at my house, and yeah, he did say that it was a remembrance of sorts, I had always thought that it referred to him. Of course, he was a little on the heavy side and he isnt that tall. But since it was his nature to draw attention to himself, I just took for granted that the title was supposed to pertain to him.
It just never occurred to me that someone could think of me that way. I never thought of myself as sexy. I’m reed thin and small. Whatever I thought of as remotely sexy in my body, I cover with oversized clothes and baggy pants. Back in the 80s, padded shoulders and loose clothings were fashionable. It was en vogue to cover your shortcomings in geometric designs and loud colors.
Besides, I dont believe in those words. Being the best in something physical does not equate to excellence, at least not in my book. Its more the result of lucky genetics and happenstance, rather than a product of hard work or mental exertion. I know thats not exactly true. Some people labored hard and long in the gyms just to be able to flash those rippling muscles and washboard abs. I know, I have seen them. Whether they do so to admire the fruits of their labor or to solicit admirations, I really dont care.
I’d rather that you tell me the last book you’ve read.
I must really be from a different world. Or I live in a totally different one than where I am physically at. I feel more at home with Shrek and Kim Possible than with a bunch of guys from Baywatch or The Contender. I’d probably make friends faster with Ursula, the evil witch of the seven seas, than with a hunk from Melrose Place.
Of course, you could say that I sometimes act as if I think I’m one. Guilty as charged, I do unbutton my shirt almost all the way when it gets too hot inside the danceclub. Its more because I like the way the clothes move and sway and maybe because I also like the lines and the form of a dancing body (which happens to be mine). My badminton clothes tend to be tight fitting at times, but only because I need the mobility.
Oh what the heck, hey, I like to look good, too, sometimes. But sexy? Or be the sexiest among a group? I would never think of myself in those terms, not in a million years. Too much ego and competition seemed to be involved in that scenario.
Although it would be nice to be told that I still look good, despite the years. I slaved at the gym at times when I’m good. I’d pass up on the occasional desserts and the thirst-quenching, cold, tall glass of iced tea. I deserve some praises for the effort.
But if I were to choose between the sexiest man alive and the common guy on the street, I think I would rather give the latter a second look. I’d look like trash beside the sexiest man alive who would be busy checking himself out in the mirror. In which case, I dont think I’d enjoy that.
But really, me sexy? Get outtahere.
