The midsection of a 67-year-old is not a pretty sight. No matter how many sit-ups I do during my daily workouts there are no six-pacs there, or anywhere in the vicinity for that matter. I can’t even get a one-pac going. Perhaps that’s because so many Budweiser six-packs made their way downstream over the past half century or so. In any case, not being able to avoid seeing my spare tire, I take my wife Sue’s advice when it comes to weighing herself – do it only first thing in the morning. In this case, there is the additional appeal of lights being dim and if I can creep past the bathroom mirror while turning my head the other way, then all the better.
Sue never mentions the bulge, which is her loving style, but I know she must be looking every once in a while. I try to do the “blousy” thing when I wear tight golf shirts, but there’s only so much material to go around, so to speak. Swimming also presents a problem because in this case the solution is to pull the waistband up above the navel, which is a sight for even sorer eyes. I never let Sue see my backside, however. Having not seen it myself for 20 years, I’m afraid I might tell her to buy a gun and just shoot me before the fat and the cellulite strike again.
That Gross is so ashamed of his body that he’d rather be shot than get a look at his ass is all the more alarming given that he confesses to spend at least 90 minutes working out in the middle of the trading day, every day, no excuses (unless it’s October 19, 1987 and the market is crashing). So he couldn’t possibly be in as bad shape as he thinks he is, meaning either a) he’s got a serious case of body dysmorphia or b) Mohamed El-Erian made a thoughtless joke about there being a little extra BG to grab onto during the lunchtime Conga line. Regardless, he could use your assurances that he looks just fine. And maybe a hug.
Six Pac(k)in’ [PIMCO]