it’s not that i’m hungry, no,
not that at all, it’s just that
i do feel rather understuffed.
said the cucumber to the
goalpost. how merciless the
divide between us! that’s an
understatement that always
has me sneezing into a pair
of imaginary underpants.
they’re about two, perhaps
three sizes smaller than any
skivvies i’ve worn in, oh, a
few decades. don’t count
me among the delusional,
however. i know to whom
these boxers belong (i am
exasperated at the thought
of wearing boxers, a sport
that seems entirely too
risky by half, especially
on days such as these).
i found a shirt near the
back of the closet which
seemed perfect for the
occasion until i attempted
to dig myself into it. this
required quite the excava
tion. i was fortunately too
tied into knots to make my
way toward either pair of
scissors. i’ve a tiny apart
ment filled with five pairs
of scissors. i did at last
manage to break free
from the shirt i found
at the back of my
closet. at times like
this the question seems
always to be this: is it
time for me to dispense
of the majority of my
wardrobe or do i hold
out hope that in some
future there is a me
that has become the
template of fitness,
or at least can fit into
a few of the things that
a smaller but perhaps
scarcely healthier version
of me could slip in and out
of such long-past fashionable
outer wear (in hopes that
fashion’s boomerang effect
has gone into play such
that i might once again
look presentable enough
to garner an intermittent
double-take or three)?
