Qualified by a preemptive “I’m not advocating narcissism, but”, Arlene Dahl urges me to “scrimp and save” for a full-length, 3-way mirror. And she’s not pulling shit out of her ass: she literally asked a man, “handsome man-about-Hollywood” Hugh O’Brian in fact. But little does she know, Stupid Idiot Jerk isn’t Hollywood and I don’t get paid to act. But what I can afford is to feel my buttocks and make sure they’re not trouble spots. I’m not advocating narcissism either, but I already did and I could barely pull my hands away. Similarly, my “upper and lower hips” are in fact a single tier of slimness. And I can’t even say “round shoulders” or “thick ankles” without laughing at the thought of what such deformities might look like.
That said, my dowager’s hump, excess fat on back, and abdominal dropsy are common knowledge. My new diet will get rid of pounds, but if I want to get rid of inches, I’ll need to do back-arches and sit-ups with my hands clasped behind my neck. It will be rigorous and irreparably harmful to my neck muscles and spine. It’s times like these I wish my bulges were a little further south, in which case I’d have only to “slap the inner thighs and knees together, reducing excess fat.”
Either way, I need someone, “preferably male,” to cheer me on and set the pace, for which I should note that “American men like outdoor girls. Continentals prefer their women in the kitchen and the boudoir.” That is, if a woman wants to know which side of the exterior walls to exercise on, she need only ask which side of the Atlantic the man in her life is from. Unfortunately, the only man in my life is the one I’m trying to suppress, which makes the “even if he’s a gymnast on television” allowance a godsend. With “a pleasant male voice against a background of music,” I can now turn to “spot developing,” which I can’t help but notice is very similar to spot reducing. Lacking firmness everywhere, I have to develop everything except the “pectoral muscles which support the breasts” (which I’ll worry about later, lest I put the cart before the implants).
I’ve started at the local gym, though failing to seek the help of the ”professional men” Arlene promises. I wouldn’t normally deviate from the Bible, but it’s doubtful they would understand my very particular goals. And while my ponytail fits right in, the accompanying thick beard, determined face, and street clothes tend to empty the gym completely, any professional men included. A masseuse (before people stopped asking men, massage was known to be slimming) I can trust is equally scarce: the last thing I want is a happy ending from some prostitute who doesn’t understand the concept of a man in transition.
My ideal female weight depends on my height “(with 2″ heels)”, a specifier that goes without saying. But what’s my true height? My current one with 2″ heels is 5′7.5″, whereas the woman I’m trying to become stands uncomfortably at 5′10.5″. I can think of no better course than to take the average, 5′9″, by which my goal is 132 lbs., basically me minus my dowager’s hump. Next up, I’ll work on “The Skin He Loves to Touch”.
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