My beer belly deserves some attention -- national attention -- I've decided. While my vanity tells me it's not totally flabby, my lower torso leads my way through life. Gently sloped love handles are forever spilling over my belt line. It will NEVER be flat. I'm learning to love my paunchy inheritance. I convince myself that my panza was handed down by generations of round-bellied Latinos who've defined the working man's genetic prototype that I carry. I know that no matter how many sit-ups, Pilates crunches, or liposuction treatments I may do, my belly will remain, perpetually convex.
So I consulted my favorite aerobics instructor, Mistress Michelle, who teaches a sadomasochistic step class at Crunch gym. I told her my dilemma. Avoiding bread, French fries, and yummy grease while spending hours on my mountain bike has resulted in a few fledgling stomach ripples. But that area between my pubes and my belly button just won't flatten out, and the accompanying spare tire won't ever melt into the "V" of my dreams. "Eso es la sabrosura," said the chiseled Michelle with a saucy wink. "That's the good life."
Between the lines and beneath the flirtation, I could see my Cuban dominatrix was telling me to chill out and accept that my tummy's here to stay. I should realize, once and for all, that I'll never look like Tyson Beckford.
Since then I've decided to exploit the situation and put my pudge to work. I will strip on national TV. Well, sort of. The good people of the advertising world have devised a competition for men who sing in the shower. In the name of Old Spice High Endurance Body Wash, the guy's guy scent that screams velvet suits and Penthouse magazine, I will audition for a national TV spot seeking the best (or worst) singer of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" while lathering himself up in the shower. I can give two hoots about the $1000 gift certificate (a grand's worth of OLD SPICE??!!). I just want to proudly parade my sabrosura on national TV. -- Juan Carlos Rodriguez