thighs

…the typical difference between a man’s waist and thigh is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double.

I’m one chunky bastard.

I think I’d look good in women’s clothing.

Does that sound odd to you?

Probably. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably have your hand hovering over the phone at this very moment, ready to hand me over to the loony bin.

But bear with me. Can you do that? Maybe by the end of this, it won’t sound so odd.

But here’s a (somehow fitting) song by Barbara Streisand that’ll keep you company as we tread on.

A few posts ago, I mentioned having visited a tailor. His name was Mario and he charged me close to two thousand dollars to make a tux and two, rather ordinary collared shirts.

For a handmade outfit, it’s not extraordinarily expensive. But for a not-even-out-of-school punk like me, who doesn’t have a six digit salary, a rich power-hungry wife, and a Beverly Hills mansion, it’s still a bit of money. A helluva lot.

So why bother?

The problem — like all problems in life — starts at the waist.

It’s a nasty problem and goes both ways — up to my chin and down to my itty-bitty toes.

The thing is, I’m an extraordinarily short guy — only about five feet seven inches. 5′7, assuming I’m standing up straight. 5′7 assuming it’s sunny outside and the weather’s just perfect. 5′7 on a tall day.

I’m also an extraordinarily heavy guy — weighing anywhere from 190 lbs to 195 lbs. In fact, on a heavy day — like Wednesday — I may even be over 195 lbs. Hold the applause, please.

But all these two characteristics aren’t problems by themselves, no. It’s the waist, you see.

And my waist, along with my extraordinarily short stature and extraordinarily heavy weight, is an extraordinarily small waist.

Okay, I’m pulling your leg. It’s not that small.

The problem is that at one end, my waist flares out to a wide back. And at the other, it flares out to even chunkier thighs. Take a look at the following silhouette. I should warn you though, the full chunkiness of my thighs is poorly depicted in this silhouette.

Since I know I’m going to have to answer some silly questions about this (mainly from Dave): No I wasn’t entirely naked for this picture, and yes, I had my boxers on.

Stop laughing.

According to my newfound tailor, Mario, the typical difference between a man’s waist and thighs is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double. I’m one chunky bastard.

So let me take you through the process of how someone like me would find an ordinary button-down shirt.

First: I’d have to find a shirt that was meant for someone with my relatively short stature — not an unsurmountable task, sure, but the majority of clothes out there are meant for men at least a few inches taller.

Second: Most dress shirts meant for men 5′7-5′9 can’t accommodate my wide upper back and shoulders. This is a pretty big problem.

Third: Chances are, any shirt that can fit my upper back was meant for someone with a much, much larger gut. So I tuck the shirt in? Sure, but the end result is that it tends to bunch up near the waist and it simply looks wrong. So you keep the shirt out? Now I just look like a twat, thanks.

Starting to get the picture? We’re not done yet. Let’s find a pair of trousers.

First: Let’s find a pair that’ll fit those beefy thighs of mine. Got em’? Okay.

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with, again, a much bigger gut. Great. So you use a belt to hold it up. But now the fabric around the waist and butt pops out. You end up looking like a dolt, holding up clown pants with a belt.

Fine, so let’s try it in the reverse order.

First: The waist. Easily done. Now put your legs through and what do you find?

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with Gluteus Maximus that’s not quite so maximal. Good luck jamming your chunky thighs through that sucker.

So I know what you’re thinking. A problem with no solution?

Hardly.

Let me explain my brilliant idea.

See, the secret (like all secrets in life, mind you) lies with the feminine sex. Quite a few women have slim waists. In fact, their waists expand up to a larger upper back and down to larger hips. This accounts for the large taper you might see in a woman’s shirt and pants.

And so the solution is simple.

Simple, yet genial.

I could — could — spend $1900 to have some hoity-toity Italian tailor make me clothes that fit.

Or I could just wear women’s clothing.

Tada.

Now, you may applaud.

I just paid a deposit on a $1900.00 tailor-made suit/tux.

To be fair, that price includes two shirts. And I’m assuming the fabric is made of the tiny chin hairs of near-extinct goats of some remote African village.

More on this later. Assuming I don’t go hang myself in shame.

Edit: Hey, I just realized. Is this how I’d feel if I had to buy a wedding dress? I mean, how many times does someone actually use a wedding gown? Once? Twice? That’s a grand (or two) straight down the drain, eh?

Later Edit: I can’t believe I just imagined myself buying a wedding gown. Shit.

I have a friend who can tell you exactly what she wants in a guy.

She can give you a detailed list of qualities and attributes.

She can provide distributions, fancy pie charts, and precision rankings.

She can tell you how important looks are, and exactly what ratio of humour to physical attractiveness is an acceptable tradeoff.

Yeah, it’s pretty darn amazing.

Me? I have no idea what I want.

That is, until recently.

With summer in full swing, and blistering hot weather here in Ottawa, there’s been a definite pleasure in watching how fashion changes. You know, from the typical Canadian parka, snowshoes, and tuque, to something a little bit more festive.

And then I realized the other day: I do know what I want.

I want a girl with a skirt.

Really, it’s that simple. I just think there’s something so incredibly sexy about women in skirts. Whether it’s a long one, a short one, one of those frilly white skirts, or even denim — anything goes. I don’t know what it is.

Maybe it has to do with how a skirt accentuates the female form. Or maybe it has to do with the fact I hang around math geeks all day and none of them are qualified to wear skirts.

Some of them aren’t even qualified to wear shorts.

In any case, there it is. I put it out there, folks.

See? I’m not picky at all.

Edit: See? Even Mr. David agrees with me.

To: Phil
From: Dave
Date: Right after he read my post
Subject: Skirts

skirts are the bomb!

so sexy, i just get riled up whenever i see a skirt… yes, even ones at the wall, on mannequins…

I concur. Even headless mannequins wearing skirts are hella hot.

What is up with incredibly hot girls who smoke around our beloved city?

I think girls like this have an societal obligation not to smoke — along with their other obligations, such as wearing curve-fitting jeans, skirts, dresses, and the occasional low-cut blouse.

That way, I can feel free to stare all I like without getting turned off.

Because, man, when I see a pretty girl who smokes, it’s such a disconnected feeling. Like eating one of those ‘display-only’ cakes, which look great, but tastes like cardboard.

Not that I’ve done that.

It’s 11:00 and a typically quiet night at the Tim Hortons restaurant near home. That is, it was a typically quiet night.

Like a parade of elephants trampling through the downtown district, a group of high school punks wander in and obliterate any sign of the quiet atmosphere I was enjoying.

Elephants on crack.
Elephants with bad fashion sense.
Elephants with adolescent angst and acne.

There’s a rather fetching brunette if not for the lummox of a boyfriend who’s accompanying her. Loose raggedy t-shirt, large belt with metal studs, and jeans hanging so low, one could practically make out the colourful patterns on his boxers. What are they? Yellow smiling faces or happy sunshines?

He catches me looking and I glare. Unflinching. Yes, dude-with-inability-to-fasten-belt, I’m looking at you. Don’t fuck with me, yo.

There’s an ugly short girl. Skanky is what skanky does and boy, was this slut trying. Hair dyed as green as pesticide-written grass and black, tight jeans cut off at the ankle.

She looks like Krusty the Clown wearing black spandex.

Then there’s the tall guy with the big belly who’s wearing the oddest accessory ever: a straw hat. Something like what you might see on an old lady after having spent way, way too long in the sunny pastures. But get this: from the the neck down, he’s practically a walking and talking recruitment poster for white thugs and gangstas. White t-shirt down to the knees and jogging pants three sizes too large.

I try not to laugh as I think of Eminem gone Country.