West End Tom

Friday night June 2, 2017. Me and wife are celebrating our 1st anniversary by reliving what we did last year at the MFA…First Night. DJ Denise…dancing. People watching. Admiring the couples that can dance with graceful fluidity and rhythm. Noting the cool outfits. We like stylish, but we also appreciate funky, avant garde, and especially VAVAVOOM. And what made us really excited with anticipation this year was that we were told it was gay pride week in Boston, and it was gay pride night at the MFA. So we expected to see great and unique clothing, style, and dancing. What we got was sloppy and drab outfits, and brutal Elaine Bennis dancers. WTF. Whatever happened to stylish, avant garde dressing? And whatever happened to people that can actually dance, you know, have rhythm. I don’t know where they are. But they weren’t at the MFA last First Friday.

“That which we are, we are.        One equal temper of heroic    hearts, made weak by time and  fate. But strong in will.              To strive, to seek, to find,                And not to yield”                              Ulysses

       The Sports Gods spoke. And when they speak it doesn’t matter about statistical probabilities….it doesn’t matter about footballs resting on the side of your head, or bouncing off your knees into your arms while you lie on the ground. It doesn’t matter if you are undrafted. The Gods have determined your fate. It doesn’t matter if there are three defenders fighting you for the ball. The Gods will make their legs prevent the ball from hitting the ground while you track it, giving you a chance to snatch it, even bobble it. The Gods will elevate its fall until you can cradle it, putting your hands sweetly and gently between it and the grass. 

The Sports Gods are often there to create the moments of victory or defeat… they were there again in Super Bowl XI, setting the stage….then it was up to the Patriots to answer the test of the Gods.  Would they accept their fate, yield to events as they unfolded?

• Rodney. Assante. Seymour. Welker. Malcolm. Gronk. Amendola. Hightower. Flowers. Edelman. White. And of course the ultimate warrior Tom Brady.

All have been there in those moments. Their fate ostensibly determined by the Sports Gods. But it was up to them to rewrite their history….to change their fate.

It took the Patriots 10 years to restore their good name. Spygate. Gone. Deflategate. Gone. They now again represent something positive to people across the country… a team that won’t quit. Yes. Coaches across the country at all levels can again use the Pats as a model for their players in sports….and life. DO NOT QUIT! No matter what the score. Keep playing hard. Keep grinding. Play hard to the final whistle. As the game goes on you will be made weak by fatigue. You will suffer the hands of fate and fumbles and interceptions. But you can never lose your will to strive……to seek victory until the very end.

You will never yield…..

• Seriously…..I’m at a Celtics game. 5pm Saturday matinee. You know. For families with kids. 8 year old boy sitting next to me with his parents. Mom and dad. Kid’s more interested in his toy than game. Then the Celtics Dancers come onto the court during a timeout. Good looking 20 somethings. You know. Form fitting outfits. Hey, it’s Ok. They’re cheerleaders. That’s what they wear. But did they have to proceed to bump and grind like this was a tryout for dancers at The Golden Banana ? Come on. I’m far from a prude. Seriously, it’s ok if they wear skimpy outfits. We expect that. I’m good with that. But can they just come up with dance routines that are somewhat family friendly?  Saturday matinee dances. Or at least…moves that are not overtly crude. That are not so….stripper like. Moves that are not like they’re getting the brains F’d out of them….like they’re not riding someone’s pony. WTF!  

That’s it. I’ve had enough. Two plus years of Zumba women. Nice ladies. But ALL of them, and I do mean ALL, complaining about their bodies. I’m gonna puke if I hear another  woman say: “I’m fat”, “I have a fat ass”, “I need to lose weight”, “I lost 10 pounds but I need to lose 10 more”. And if you include my whining girlfriend, seriously, my head’s gonna explode.

Amy Schumer has it right. She shits on men… deservedly so. But she’s also all over women for their boring, daily, self flagellation about their bodies. She knows what we men are thinking and want to say. Actually, we want to scream: “Can you women just shut the F up about your bodies?!” You’re the ones who constantly rant about men being dogs. That we’re just interested in sex. Yes, that’s true. We objectify women. Guilty as charged. Yes, we’re shallow and superficial. But why do women allow themselves to care so much about what a bunch of dolts think?  You’re the ones who carp about feminism, and are so proud of being strong and independent. Even millennial women won’t vote for Hillary just because she’s a woman. I think they should, if only just because men have ruled our country forever and a woman deserves a chance to screw up too. But women get offended if I make that suggestion.

Let’s try ANOTHER suggestion. From now on, if someone, anyone, man or woman, complements your looks, your hair, or how you look in a dress…simply say “thank you”. Try it. Oh….you can add something else if you want to, like “that was very nice of you to say”. But, please, PLEASE don’t put yourself down. Accept the F’n complement. Because in most cases, it is given sincerely. Not just to be nice. But because women have a natural allure to men. It’s a broad range of attractiveness. And I’m not including the Vogue magazine idea of attractiveness. Skinny models are not sexy. That cold thin image is not  really attractive to men. Take it from me. A man. We like women that are real women…. with confidence in their bodies. Especially if they smile a lot. Men LOVE women who smile. And laugh at our jokes. Try smiling. Be natural. Be confident with your body. That’s attractive. Now say “thank you”.

Only me. I swear this stuff happens only to me, and Larry David. Well, it feels that way. I’m still kinda put off by what happened yesterday in the WholeFoods parking lot. Even though I laughed about it last night, today I’m kinda aggravated  about it. 

Anyway…I’m sitting in the  WholeFoods parking lot waiting for my GF to do her pain in the ass “organic” shopping, when I saw bird shit on  the passenger side of my windshield. I got out of the car and cleaned it with a napkin. Yuck.  I looked for a barrel and none were anywhere around. Well, none were close by. So…..I had 3 choices:

1) Go inside WholeFoods to look for a barrel, 2)throw yucky bird shit napkin in my car trash bag which I empty out about once every 6 months, or, 3) just drop it on the ground near my passenger door. Ok…I was lazy. I dropped it on the ground. I figured, hey, WTF, they hire people to clean the lot. Every kid needs a summer job. So I rationalized my laziness. But I did feel kinda guilty when I got back in my car.  All of a sudden this 20 something girl in a bikini top and shorts comes sashaying towards my car, saying… yelling, actually, “sir..sir..you forgot your napkin”, “sir, sir, …..you forgot your napkin.” Then, with a smug smirky look on her face, INCREDIBLY, SHE PICKS UP THE  F’N BIRD SHIT NAPKIN FROM THE GROUND, OPENS MY DRIVER’S SIDE DOOR AND THROWS THE  F’N NAPKIN IN MY CAR TOWARDS ME, saying again sarcastically, “you forgot your napkin”. The bird shit napkin hits my arm and lands on the passenger seat. She shuts the door and triumphantly walks away and gets into her SUV, feeling, I’m sure, like she had a double win. Saving the planet, and showing up a slob. Unfortunately, her double victory was short lived. My guilt turned to anger. I opened my door and flung it out, saying in my best sarcastic voice “thank you…. thank you”….

What an ahole!!!! Can you believe that!!?? Here’s a bratty North Shore girl, probably from a tony town and right off the beach and spending her daddy’s money at pricey WholeFoods, showing up an admittedly sloppy adult.

  But, okay, litter rage incident over. I survived the attack.  Funny story to tell my friends, who will remind me sarcastically that I make friends wherever I go. Kinda like Larry David.

Whoa! Not so fast. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t going to leave me alone with my insolent response to her teaching moment. She gets out of her SUV, and, smirking, starts TAKING PICTURES OF ME  in my car, ostensibly to report my crime to the litter police or Al Gore. So now I’m aggravated and kinda nervous about an accurate retelling of the incident. So I did what every self-respecting citizen does today when they see a serious crime. Or what Larry David would do. I pulled out my phone and took pictures of her and her SUV. Hey, she could have been a nut, not just a spoiled suburban brat. She could have accused me of ALL sorts of terrible things. Like killing a lady bug (actually ladybugs are the only bugs I don’t hate and never kill). Finally, when we were done gathering visual evidence, she  walked away with a look of disdain that she probably thinks I will never forget. Instead, I gave her a brush off wave. Should have been the finger.

 But I guess the moral of the story is that a dad should talk to his daughter about being cautious of her suroundings and a lot more circumspect about butting into situations, given the amount of maniacs in the world. Maybe he should give her a copy of “The Stranger Beside Me” to read. You know….Ted Bundy. That’ll scare the shit out of her. If she reads that book, she may not ever talk to a stranger again. Or open a stranger’s door and throw a  bird shit napkin at him. Maybe.

In a way, Carol will always be Carol “Ferrone” to me. I met her many years ago when I was teaching math at Medford High School in the late 70s, early 80s. She was a history teacher there and we became friends. She was a classy lady. Smart with a great sense of humor.  I especially respected her forcefullness and organizational skills. So much so that we teamed up to be the Class of 1983 advisors. We had a great class of kids. They were so well-behaved. Actually, they behaved whether they liked it or not. Thanks to The General, Carol. They had to behave or else they would have to deal with the wrath of Carol. Many a muscular testosterone-filled high school boy would shrink in the face of Carol’s death stare.

And then there was my cousin Chas, who I grew up with. Growing up together means different things to different people. But to us, growing up together meant seeing each other just about every day. Playing ball. Chas, Junior, me, the Babe. Cousins like brothers. Played ball every day. Yeah. Every day. Watched sports together.  Watched the Friday night fights with the fathers. Holidays sat at the kids table. Visited each other through the fire escapes in the West End. We were a team. A team of 1st generation immigrant kids We played and scrapped together. Just ask the other kids in the Medford parks about the Colonnas and Mastromauros. They’ll remember us for sure. They’ll remember the Italian kids who played on the hard streets in front of their houses. Whose families lived in the basements because the mothers didn’t want to take the plastic off the furniture upstairs.
Chas was one of us. The nicest one of us. And he was just about the nicest guy you all could ever meet.

Carol and Chas. They weren’t dating anyone because they never found anyone as good as each other. Chas was lonely, and Carol hadn’t found a worthy guy. At the time, Sandy and I lived upstairs at my mother’s house. Chas was spending a lot of time with us. He would walk across the street to hang out. Especially to watch Monday night football. Chinese food and Ice cream. Sandy and I thought, well, maybe we set them up on a date. But as you know, that stuff never works. But once in awhile it does. The rest was history. Carol gave Chas a life. The life he dreamed about. Good wife. Two beautiful kids. That’s all he ever wanted. He loved everything about Carol, including her death stare. Chas knew that look really wasn’t needed. Because he knew he was going to be a great husband and doting father. Because he had everything. He had his dream.

But then what happens to every family happened. Life happened. If you live long enough, you will have tragedy. You just hope that the joys of life make unbearable tragedy bearable. Make life worth living. You have to know that the simple pleasures of life help you get through. Kids. Babies. Dogs. So the key to surviving life is being a simple person and appreciating simple moments. Chas was like that. Is like that. He will appreciate memories past, cherishing the love he was so lucky to have, and memories to be as a dad to Dianna and Matthew, and a grandfather to Arianna.

And Chas understands that
when he held Carol for the last time, he knew that their souls held each other, and promised to meet again. I know Chas. And he will keep that promise.

“Men are dogs”. Admit it ladies. You’ve said it. Of course you have. You can’t believe how many times I’ve heard it over the years from women. And if you haven’t said it, you’ve thought it. And you know what? I’VE said it. Men admit it. Yes, we are dogs. Or we’re LIKE dogs. Hey, if I had to pick an animal to be like, it would be a dog. Man’s best friend. Pat us, feed us, let us fetch the ball, let us sleep on the couch, let us hump your leg occasionally. We’ll be happy.
But NATURALLY, a woman wants more. And in fairness, men can really do better at being sensitive with women. Why can’t we talk nice to them BEFORE we have sex? You know, “foreplay”. Google it guys, if you’re not  familiar with the term. I think it means you say something romantic to get her in the mood. And I don’t mean complementing her meatloaf, unless you’re using it as a metaphor for her breasts or ass. Maybe try watching a romantic TV show or movie with her. The problem with that is, if your wife is like my GF, she will want to watch the ID CHANNEL. She loves the shows about wives killing their husbands, usually after cutting their dicks off. They want them to suffer first. Maybe that gets HER in the mood, but not so much me.
Another thing, why can’t men cuddle after sex? I know it seems like a waste of time to us because we’ve already done our jobs, but, try cuddling. Women like it. It makes them feel closer to us. Even though we’d prefer they just watch Sportscenter with us. That would make us feel closer to them.
Sorry, I digress. This is not supposed to be about what  men can do to please women. We already have a well deserved reputation for being dolts when it comes to relationships. This is supposed to be about HOW WOMEN CAN PLEASE THEIR MEN, and thus, be happier themselves. First, women shouldn’t waste their time  reading “how to please your man” books written by women. Because most women don’t know dick about pleasing men. Listen to ME. A man. Men already know the world is full of unhappy women. We’re married to them. We date them. Some are divorced and angry because their husbands left them for another woman, usually younger. Men also already know there are lots of unhappy young women who have dated a series of loser guys. These unhappy young women cause problems for divorced women because they’re younger and they’re sick of nitwit, crude guys their own age. So they now go after husbands who are unhappy in their marriages, and are usually older but nicer, actually have jobs, and are more generous in an old school way. You know, holding doors, complementing you, and actually paying for dinner.  But why are  husbands unhappy, and what can women do to make their husbands happy? The saying shouldn’t be “happy wife makes happy life”. It should be “happy wife AND happy husband make happy life”. You can’t get answers from “how to be happy” books written by women because they focus on how a woman can train her man to make her happy. NO, NO!! Women…. LISTEN TO ME!! A man. Focus on how YOU can make your man happy! If you make HIM happy, he’ll do anything to make YOU happy. And I mean anything. So, ladies, the question is: how do you make your man happy? Do exactly as I tell you and your man will love the shit out of you, if you know what I mean. Seriously. Follow my *13 steps to treating your man as good as you treat  your dog:

1) *Pat us. Scratch our bellies. That is, put your hands on us. Be PHYSICALLY affectionate. Guys may complain about public displays of affection, but we like it. It’s about our egos. We like to know that we’re your favorite dog.

2) *Feed us. Let us eat the foods that WE like, not the salads that you eat because you’re on another of your endless diets, or the organic tasteless shit that’s healthy for us. Hey, can’t we enjoy the one life we have?

3) *Let us sleep on the couch. If you let us sleep on the couch whenever we feel like, we’ll even let you occasionally  cuddle up with us.

4) *Let us watch sports whenever we feel like it. Guys love sports. It’s in our genes. Like dogs chasing balls. And your guy’s balls will be in the palms of your hands if you let him go out with his friends to a sports bar. That won’t kill you and he’ll love you for it.

5) *ALWAYS keep your hand on your guy’s upper thigh when you’re sitting with him. In a movie theater, in a bar, at dinner, anytime you can. This way he’ll know you care about his dick, and other women will know it’s yours and won’t go near it unless they want to get stabbed.

6) *Don’t let your dog drool. For the love of God, when you go out with your guy, can you dress up?! Wear something nice. DO NOT WEAR A SWEATSHIRT!!! DO NOT WEAR SWEATPANTS!!!
This actually happened one night when we were out at a bar. My GF was dancing in the aisle. She ALWAYS looks good because she NEVER goes out with me at night without wearing a hot outfit.
Some girl, actually kind of pretty, wearing a bulky sweatshirt and sweatpants, came up to my GF and asked her something. My GF just laughed. Apparently, the girl’s husband wanted to know if my GF’s “breasts were real”. So he sends his clueless wife to ask. HUH?!!! Can you believe that shit?! Why the F don’t you wear something nice when you go out with your husband?!  And maybe then he won’t be drooling over another girl!!

7) *Can’t you let your guy bark a little? Do you ALWAYS have to bark back at him? Do you ALWAYS have to have a wise answer? Do you ALWAYS have to have the last word? Can’t you stop YAPPING? If a guy wants to argue with someone, let him do it with his cronies at the sports bar. If he wants an irritating discussion about sports or politics with an obnoxious, intransigent, know it all wiseguy, let him have it with his friends. Don’t be that person. You’re his wife. Don’t you want him to bang you, not argue with you? If you constantly argue with him, he may bang someone else.

8) *Watch your dog. If his tale is wagging, he’s happy. Same with your guy. Watch his tail, if you know what I mean. You’ll know if he’s happy.

9)* Play with your husband like, and as much, as you play with your dog. Laugh, smile, giggle, get some joy out of the goofy things that happen every day in our lives. Share these goofy things with your husband. Men like to laugh and have fun. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you  laugh and play with your husband like you do with your dog?

10) *Sleep with your husband, not your dog AND your husband. There is a difference. Do you know how many divorced women sleep with their dogs? Lots. Dogs in beds are not conducive to sex with your guy. It’s a known fact. There was a study done by Harvard concluding that 90% of couples sleeping with dogs are unhappy with their sex lives. Actually, there was no study. But it does makes sense. Doesn’t it?

11)* Spade your dogs, not your men. Maybe dogs need to be spaded,  but DON’T EMASCULATE your men. Don’t ALWAYS criticize what they do. And if they do something good, don’t tell them  they could have done better. Ladies, please, PLEASE Learn the meaning of the word “emasculate”. ALL guys know the meaning without looking it up. We’ve ALL felt it. We’ve ALL had our balls cut off by our “loving” gals. My GF is constantly trying to cut my manhood off. I’m a reasonably secure guy, but I find myself wanting to either smack her upside her head, figuratively, or instinctively covering up my crotch. Seriously, EVERY guy who’s ever cheated on his spouse, and I mean EVERY guy, knows the feeling. And worst of all for women, if you’re guy has a choice of staying home with a whining harpy or going to a bar and listening to an airhead hoodsie tell him how great he is, well……..even a clueless woman knows the answer.

12) *Don’t FORCE your man to do tricks for you. Don’t expect him to fetch, heel, roll over for you. Remember, men are “like” dogs, we’re NOT dogs. He may give in temporarily. He may in fact do tricks for you. But don’t be surprised if he runs away some day. So, try using some gentle psychology. Don’t expect him to roll over by giving him an ultimatum. I know a wonderful, spiritual, attractive woman who was totally in love with her husband. Unfortunately he loved to play darts and drink beer with his friends. Too often for her. So she gave him an ultimatum: “choose darts or me”. He chose darts. ….and whoever was at the bar holding his dart.

13) Finally, you’re gonna think I’m nuts, but hey, here it is:
* Sleep naked with your husband whenever you can. Hey, it’s not that bad. Yeah, okay, I know you’re gonna be cold.  But, it’s a lot colder in an empty bed. And you’ll be surprised how many times your guy will warm you up.

If you’re lucky in life, you had an aunt who was like a second mother or an uncle who was like a second father. They guided you from when you were a kid, with words and deeds and understanding, and made you feel special. That was my Uncle George.

My first memories as a kid growing up on the streets in the West End of Boston were about my uncles and aunts…. my Italian family. My Uncle Marco, who taught me how to box. Uncle Frank, “Chi Chi”, Mr Personality, who was great and generous to me his whole life. Uncle Tony, a sweet guy, who gave me my first job. Uncle Joe, who treated me like the son he never had. Uncle John, the distinguished patriarch of the family, who used to give my father a whack on the head every time he swore or said something off color, which was a lot. And my Uncle George, the youngest of the uncles, who played the crazy clown at holidays and weddings, at least until Zia Maria dragged him off the floor to yell at him for making a fool of himself. I remember thinking how these proud strong men, whom I adored and idolized, would be afraid of their wives, my aunts, getting mad at them.

I remember when I was about 6 years old, on the way to Italy for Uncle George’s wedding to my Aunt Maria. My family traveled to Italy on a ship, the Andrea Doria, which actually sank the following year. That ship was doomed for having me as a passenger. I terrorized the ship’s staff and my mother, always running around doing crazy things, like climbing on the railings. When Uncle George heard the stories of my craziness, he just laughed. No matter how fresh I was, Uncle George always got a kick out of me. I knew even at that age that he had a special affection for me. It’s a beautiful thing for a kid to feel special. But even though Uncle George was a good and patient guy, even his love for me was strained at his wedding. When it was time for he and Zia Maria to say goodbye to the guests and leave for their honeymoon, they couldn’t find their car keys. Everyone looked frantically for over an hour, until, of course, they found them in a fresh little boy’s pocket. That story has made my family laugh for decades. Zia Maria, even today, still can’t believe Thomas the lawyer was such a mischievous kid. Unfortunately, as I write this, Uncle George is dying slowly in Florida. Alzheimer’s. Home hospice. I’m waiting for the call. My brother and I will hop on a plane, share a room, and pay our last respects to one of the few great guys you meet in your lifetime. Me and my cousins will recall how we’d play ball from sunrise to sunset. How, on weekends, Uncle George would play with us on the rocky, undeveloped fields behind our house. Uncle George was raised in Italy, so he never played baseball or football in his life. But he made up for not knowing what the hell he was doing with an unreal burst of speed, smarts and fearlessness. I’m talking about diving on the rocks to catch a ball or tag a runner. Bleeding knees. We thought he was nuts until we found out he was a star soccer player in Italy. That explained everything. You see,  every town in Italy, no matter how small, has a soccer team, and a beautiful soccer stadium. Everybody in town, thousands, would come to watch the weekend games. After all, it was their town team. You know, Friday Night Lights. Uncle George was the star, the striker, which is the best goal scorer. Strikers are blazing fast, smart and tough. And fearless. That was Uncle George when we were kids. What a competitor!

As we grew up, we learned how competitive and  astute he was in business. He always, ALWAYS, made the right business decisions. He helped me so much when I first became an attorney. Uncle George was business smart AND street smart. He trusted me with legal matters, and recommended shrewd ways to get business, critical things for a young inexperienced guy just starting out. He wanted to help me because I was his nephew and he was proud of me. And he loved me. And that’s how I felt about him too.
Long after I was established, every once in awhile he’d stop by the office just to say hello. I always loved seeing him, always had time for him, because he still made me feel special. He ALWAYS looked dapper, very stylish, earth colors, even matching belt and shoes. He looked like he just got off a plane from Milan. We’d visit for a few minutes, talking about our favorite subjects, the RED Sox or PATS, Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, Tom Brady. But most importantly, we’d talk about our sons, Babe and Tommy, our daughters Baby Nancy and Danielle. He never stopped thanking me for begging him to take a Saturday off from work to see the Babe play high school football. Babe was the star running back, just like Uncle George was the star striker. I’ll never forget how emotional Uncle George was after watching Babe for the first time. He couldn’t believe how good his son was. His eyes filled with tears. You see, he had that incredible deep sense of pride and love a father feels in his heart for the exploits of a son. Uncle George never missed another game in Babe’s high school or college career. He and Zia Maria had a great time following Tufts University play all over New England. In those nostalgic meetings in my office, Uncle George would describe those years as the best years of his life. Those magical days with our kids was our favorite subject. Once in awhile we’d get emotional, crying about them. We’d laugh, then we’d cry. That was okay. Crying’s okay when it comes to your kids. We were unashamed about our deep love for them, both of us aware of how vulnerable we were,  how intertwined our happiness was with their lives.

Uncle George taught me so much by words and deeds. But what I remember most about him was that, unlike most men, he didn’t need or want to hide his love for his kids, his love and respect for Zia Maria, his love for me. He was a wonderful, secure man, as successful and comfortable in business as he was funny when he played the crazy clown at holidays and weddings.

George Colonna was an Italian-American immigrant. He loved Italy. But he always told me America was the greatest country in the world because it gave him and other hard working immigrants the opportunity to work and support their families. Uncle George was not a physically imposing man, but he was a BIG man. And just like so many of our immigrant fathers and mothers, George Colonna was one of the great generation of men and women who came to this country on boats…..with NOTHING. Can you imagine coming to a foreign country with no money, no job, not being able to speak the language? The only things they had were their family, their strong will, and their wits.They were uneducated but highly intelligent, loyal to their families, hard workers. God knows how hard they worked, instilling in their kids that unique immigrant work ethic. Do you remember ANY days that your father or mother wasn’t working? That your mom wasn’t cooking and cleaning. Any days that they stayed home with a work injury or on unemployment? I don’t. They raised their kids, bought and paid for homes, shared warm holidays, showed us family love. THEY GAVE US THE LIVES THAT WE HAVE. They came here with NOTHING…….and gave us EVERYTHING.
That was my Uncle George.
❤💔

Yeah, Spanx suck!! What can I say. I HATE those motherf’ers!! Whoever invented Spanks made a fortune, but seriously damaged the sex lives of most couples. Don’t ask me why, but women dress for other women and not for their men. Trust me. I’m not making this stuff up. I know what I’m talking about. I’m a  lucky guy with a good looking GF. But as with all good looking women, she thinks she has to look so F’n perfect. Every time she gets ready to go out, she stands in front of a full length mirror and does a 360° view of her body. Every F’n degree has to look perfect. I’ve told her a million times that she has a great shape, that guys don’t want perfect women. We want sexy women. And sexy women are comfortable with their bodies, radiating self-confidence. They THINK they’re sexy. And thus they are. Plenty nights when we go out, my GF is feeling her mojo, looks fabulous and acts it. But some nights she’s not feeling it, and acts and feels frumpy. On go the F’n Spanx!!! When it comes to self-confidence, she’s like most women. Very insecure about their bodies. Problem is, women don’t hear their men. They listen to themselves, other women, and TV talk show lollipop heads. Do you know how many times my GF has asked me if I thought some skinny skanky blonde had a nice body? Too many times. But men aren’t interested in skinny. Men want real bodies, real women. Yeah, okay, so we want T&A. That doesn’t make us bad people. And once in awhile when we’re out, we want to put our hands on our woman’s body, maybe even on her ass. Not in a vulgar way. Just a graze, a fleeting touch. Alright, so maybe we do want to cop a major feel. And when we do, we want to feel ass, not girdle. Yes, Spanx feel like a girdle, so friggen unnatural, so unsexy. Men like to feel skin, REAL skin. Don’t women realize that without Spanx,  your ass FEELS way better to us, and even LOOKS way better? Do you know why? Because it FEELS and LOOKS like a REAL ass! And plus, we also like that your ass is accessible to us, if you know what I mean. And you should know that there’s nothing more erotic to a man than a NATURAL woman in a sundress. Yes, try wearing a dress once in awhile. WITHOUT SPANX!! If you didn’t know that before, you know it now. No more excuses!!
Hey, maybe you’ll read this and think that I’m an ignorant ahole. Some women are going to think I’m a chauvinist. And some women just don’t give a shit about pleasing men. I can take the criticism. But, if a woman wants to please her man in a subtle but sexy way,  then LISTEN TO ME!! Gather up all your Spanx and trash them!! Come on ladies!! TRASH THOSE MOTHERF’ERS!!! Give your man the pleasure of feeling your ass, your REAL ass!! You’ll FEEL sexy. You’ll BE sexy. Your post-Spanx sex life with your man, or any man, WILL improve.
Westendtom GUARANTEES it!

I started Zumba March, 2014.  For several months I had absolutely no interaction with any of the 100 or so gals in the classes. I stood in the back row,  trying to learn the various typical Zumba steps, trying to be unobtrusive, trying not to stare at anyone’s ass. It was a good workout, got me to the gym 4-5 times a week. I didn’t lose any weight, but that was okay. I still enjoyed myself because I like music and dancing. And it took my mind off what I really wanted and loved to do,  play basketball, which at my age is a disaster waiting to happen.

That was then, this is now, a year later:

First, I was promoted from the last row of the class to the middle row. Actually, I promoted myself. That’s a big deal for me. I felt it was time. The last row is for scrubs, beginners who have no clue,  gals who for some unexplained reason constantly go left when everyone goes right ( I call them the Elaine Bennis dancers ), clueless guys who half-heartedly try Zumba with the wrong intentions, late comers who squeeze in and bump into you, and  20-somethings in spandex who come in for a lark and find out what lousy shape they’re in, so they don’t try because they’re too cool or embarrassed. They usually leave early. That pisses me off.  It’s disrespectful to the hard working gals in the class.

Second, I’m not a pariah anymore. I’ve actually had a few conversations with some of the gals. Well, not really converations. Just kind of “hi, how are you?” No big deal, just 5 minutes before class. Actually, I’ve sort of gravitated to a few gals that are in the middle of the class like me. They actually talk to me like I’m one of them. We usually line up in the same row  by chance or on purpose. There’s comfort that we all know the steps, I don’t get a death stare when I clumsily bump them, and we laugh at some of the goofy things we see in class.To my left is a graceful willowy blonde, probably a ballet dancer in another life. We speculate about everyone’s REAL dancing ability. You see, just because you can follow Zumba steps doesn’t mean you can actually dance. Hey, the first row knows all the steps, but it doesn’t mean they can dance. We’ll be the judge of that.
To the right of me are the “sisters”,  who I’ve admired for a long time since my dark days in the back row. I always got a kick out of them because they seemed to laugh a lot throughout the class. At what? I had no idea, since I don’t normally associate having fun with sweating my ass off. But now that I’m next to them, I realize that we have similar senses of humor, laughing at stuff, especially  the absurdity of some of the steps. Like the grinding, humping, twerking  moves that you expect from exotic dancers, but not from suburban mothers. Unless they have a part time job at the Golden Banana. “Sisters” are not only really good dancers, but best of all, they laugh at my jokes. I like that. Hey, I’m a guy.  Guys love that. Feed our egos girls. I always wondered why some women don’t smile enough. Don’t they realize smiling is a really attractive trait? I tell young guys to find a girl that smiles and laughs a lot. That girl will give you a life. That’s my row. And I even know the names of other gals. They know mine. We say hi. That’s all. But that’s all you need. Hey, it’s just a workout. It’s not a pick up bar. I think they respect I’m there for the right reasons. I don’t leer, I don’t flirt. Well…..I don’t consciously stare or flirt.

I shouldn’t forget the adorable little gal that started in the back when I started, clueless like me, not really caring about wearing the latest LA Fitness style.  But now she has moved to the front,  with confidence, wearing bright colors and spandex. She can actually wear spandex, if you know what I mean. Good for her.

The front row gals are mostly really good and know all the steps. One, Miss Perfect, is so good she could actually teach the class. But unlike those annoying know-it-all precocious girls in the first row in grammar school, I can’t criticize her because she’s actually nice. And more importantly, I follow her when I can’t see the instructor, which is often.

Front row gals are so confident that they occasionally do “unplanned solos”. That’s okay. They’re cool, funky dancers, fun to watch. Amazingly, one of them did a solo one Sunday morning in the middle of the room that I swear she learned in her stripper days. Seriously, all she needed was a pole. And after class, she probably got into her Suburban van and went to church with her family. Hysterical.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have to be careful. There’s “mean girl”, always plunking herself in front of and too close to me, pretty much guaranteeing unwanted contact. She’s made it clear that she thinks I don’t belong. It’s like she’s telling me “get out of the way. You’re taking a spot from a WOMAN!!!”. I’ve gotten plenty of dirty looks from her.

Then there’s the “tall girl” who shows that she’ll tolerate my presence in HER class by giving me a forearm shiver to the chest. Cute if you’re in the first grade.

It’s not as if I’m unaware of my place as one of the few non-gay guys in class. I really try to avoid getting in the way. Tough to do when you’re a big guy. I’m just happy I’m pretty much accepted by most of the regular women. I think they tolerate me because I’ve been faithfully coming for almost two years without getting slapped for inappropriate behavior.

And I gotta say a few things about the female gender:

1) Women don’t like to sweat. I can’t figure out why. They turn the fans on as soon as class starts!!! Come on! Sweat girls! Maybe it’s a guy thing. I grew up playing sports. No pain, no gain. I love to sweat when I’m working out. Most guys do. But the gals HATE sweating.

2) Half the class doesn’t really work hard. They half-ass it. They don’t push themselves. Maybe that’s why they don’t lose weight. I can’t figure it out. I’m a very competitive person. I’ve been like that ever since I was a kid. I had lots of fights and arguments. I always had to win the argument and eventually the game. Not trying hard, not trying to learn the steps, not pushing yourself to the limit, are not in my nature.

3) You’re in the room waiting for class to start, and it’s so F’n loud!! I’m standing there thinking of why I’m in this place full of women, why I’m not on a basketball court and where did time go; when this cacophony of sound bombards my ears, like a high school cafeteria. 35 women yapping! What the F are they talking about?! Even “sisters”, whom I love, are always yapping….DURING class!
Can you ALL…JUST….SHUT….THE…F…UP?! No. They can’t. Not in their genes.

4) There’s another guy who’s a semi-regular, actually seems like a nice guy. For some reason all the women love him, always hugging him.  I’ve been coming for two years and nobody hugs ME! What the F!!

5) Despite my whining, I want to make it clear that I have great admiration for the Zumba women. They are wives, mothers, and working women who get to class on a regular basis, squeezing in an hour for themselves.They’re trying to get in shape just so they can look their best, even though they know they’re ridiculously objectified and expected by  society to look like the lollipop heads on TV. I wish they would understand that attractivenesss is partly a state of mind. And dressing for her body type might help too. If a woman is confident and thinks she’s sexy, she probably is.

6) I think most of the women have lived long enough to have interesting backgrounds. But maybe not quite like the woman I met last week who told me that she escaped the “killing fields” of Cambodia. Imagine that! The freaking “killing fields”! A place of horror that we read about in the Vietnam war era. And now, decades later, she’s in the Peabody Y doing Zumba.

7) A few words about the instructors:
Love Cheryl. She’s full of fun. Kind of zany, but really nice to everyone. She tries hard to teach us the steps, even staying after class to teach the Elaine Bennis dancers, oblivious to the reality that they have little rhythm and  dancing ability. Hey, some of us got it and some of us don’t.

Chris is excellent. Great workout. Seems like a very nice guy. He tries hard both to push us and to color coordinate his outfits.  Speaking of outfits, I’m trying to get my row to wear more color. They’re good looking women but stick mostly to basic black, because good looking women are always unhappy with their bodies. No matter how many times you tell them that they’re beautiful, they’ll still see imperfection in the mirror. Just ask Amy Schumer.

Finally, despite my idiotic, sophomoric diet, I’ve started to lose weight. Hey, I’m glad l lost weight. But that wasn’t the plan. I just wanted to exercize to maintain, to be able to eat ice cream and bread. If you’ve read my first Zumba BLOG, losing weight is kind of a no-no. I’m already an interloper in a women’s class. No need to rub it in. Apparently, I didn’t take my own advice:
DON’T LOSE WEIGHT!!!