Waist management

I received a link the other day to purchase videos and photos from the half-marathon I ran in Washington over the weekend. Because nothing says "I ran 13.1 miles" like your picture on a luggage tag to go along with two days of struggling to climb stairs.

The video from the finish line was pretty depressing. There are people jogging across it, people giving one last burst, even a guy in an Uncle Sam hat triumphantly raising his arms. And then there I am, urgently hobbling like my dinner didn't agree with me.

In other words, I looked and felt like an old man. Thankfully, I regained my youth later that night at dinner, when I saw a Dad sit down at a nearby table with his long-sleeved T-shirt tucked into his jeans.

(POLL UPDATE: Thanks to everyone who voted last week. The majority of you think I look handsome no matter what I wear and believe I will be seeing "Friends with Benefits" this summer if my girlfriend wants to see it. That's probably the least I can do for her, seeing as she would've finished the race more than the five minutes faster than she did had she not "run" beside me for a bit when I was hurting.)

There seem to be a variety of male markers for getting older. I'm OK with the hair growth in strange places; the woman who cuts my hair now trims my eyebrows without my asking. But to me, the clearest sign you're officially old is the unconscious need to tuck in any shirt you're wearing no matter how stupid it might look.

I don't know exactly at what age that happens. Sure, the average working male spends most of his day with his shirt tucked in, but that doesn't mean he has to tuck his T-shirt into his shorts before he works out at the gym. Perhaps it's done to contain a growing belly. In that case, I would argue the tucked-in shirt only accentuates the gut.

Society equates the tuck-in with cleanliness. I say it just creates more surface area for you to spill something onto your pants. And when that happens, there's only one thing to do - untuck your shirt.

That night for dinner, incidentally, I left my chaps at home (thanks again to everyone who voted in my poll!) and was wearing an untucked sweater... with no belt around my jeans. This is a more controversial position: one of my cousins insists that if your pants have belt loops, you must wear a belt.

This makes sense when the shirt is tucked in, or if your pants don't fit. But if the pants fit and the shirt is untucked, why give yourself one more hurdle when it comes time to use the bathroom? Besides, I've noticed women often wear pants with belt loops but no belt. Maybe the belt loops are supposed to be decorative, or maybe they don't want to draw attention to their midsections, not that there's anything to draw attention to because they look fantastic and I'm pretty sure they've lost some weight and let's just continue to the next paragraph.

I know there's a good chance I'll read this 30 years from now wearing my tucked-in T-shirt and laugh at my youthful ignorance. Time has a way of eroding even the strongest feelings. But if, 30 years from now, I'm also reading this while wearing socks with sandals, I give you permission to beat me with my own belt.

Surveys say...

Before we get into today's column, you might want to take this poll.

Now you can't say I didn't warn you.

I was thinking about polls after finding out at work the other day that I'm not as square as I thought I was. More of a rhombus, if you will.

At issue was hearing on TV last week that a girl was "sweating" a guy. I had never heard the term before, but when I excitedly told my girlfriend what I had learned, I could almost feel her patting my head over the phone.

Sweating has been around for a while, she said, long before The Situation used the term on "Jersey Shore." (Since I know you're wondering: "Masterpiece Theatre" was a repeat.)

This led me to poll a handful of co-workers who are about my age. About half knew of sweating and gave me the pat on the head via e-mail, but others had no clue. The lack of consensus was somewhat reassuring, and I achieved my goal of using "sweating" in everyday conversation.


My point is, I'd like to incorporate more polling in my life. It's not that I would call myself indecisive. But I could. So why not let other people make a decision for me if they're willing?

Say, for example, I wake up and don't know what to wear to work. (Actually, that would never happen. I have a system with my pants and shirts. But bear with me, this is just an exercise.) Rather than aimlessly searching in my closet, I could ask people


And then I and my chaps would hop on my horse and gallop to the office.

I think the polling would most come in handy for entertainment choices. Not only could friends and family tell me if a movie or book is good, but knowing me and my tastes gives them insight into whether I would like it even if they didn't.

During that same episode of "Jersey Shore," for example, I saw a trailer for a summer movie where the plot seems to be Mila Kunis and Justin Timberlake have trouble keeping on their clothes when they see each other. My Chick Flick Detector went off when I saw the Wisecracking, Gay Best Friend supporting character and heard the chorus of Semisonic's "Closing Time" in the background. On the other hand, Mila Kunis was in her underwear a lot and Justin Timberlake and I share a birthday.

(Strangest part of the trailer: seeing Jenna Elfman as Timberlake's mother. Dharma's old enough to play a mother with a son in his late 20s/early 30s? Man, I'm getting old.)

So, please help me make plans for at least one night this summer.



Thanks. I'll sweat you very much in return.

Open Letters

Dear Deli Counter Workers,

Outside of the wonderful woman who cuts my hair, you are the professionals I've had the longest relationship with. Twice a week I seek you out, dutifully taking my number. Inevitably, it's the number right after the person who is ordering seven meats and four cheeses, but I know it's going to be worth the wait.

I ask for turkey breast to make sandwiches for lunch. You cut the first slice and show it to me, asking if I want it thinner or thicker. Most times I say it's fine because, honestly, I can't tell the difference. Occasionally I'll say, "A little thinner; I'm expecting company," and then laugh to myself. Thanks for not judging me.

I also always appreciate it when you put too much turkey on the scale, take off the extra, print out a receipt and then put the extra back in my pile. Don't worry, that's our little secret.

There's one thing that could make our relationship better, however. When it comes time to put the receipt on the bag, please don't use the receipt like a piece of tape to pin the bag's opening to the body of the bag. Because I always ended up tearing the bag trying to separate the receipt from the plastic. And then there is always a piece of the receipt sticking out from the top of the bag, making it difficult to open and close.

So please, next time, just put the receipt on the bag and hand it over. You can cut the turkey to any thickness you like in return.

Dear Inventor of Foam Hand Soap,

The frustration of the liquid soap-automatic faucet-electric hand dryer triumvirate caused a snowball effect that often left me drying my hands on my pants. I would get too much soap on my hands to rinse off one time through those low-flow and temperamental sinks, followed by not enough heat to dry my drenched hands.

It's a vicious spiral that ends with me using extra paper towels out of spite if they are available. (I don't like bathrooms that offer both the hand dryer and paper towels. I can feel the hand dryer judging me as I reach for the paper towel. Sorry, Captain Planet.)

The foam soap has effectively blown up the equation. One squirt of foam can easily be washed away with just a little bit of water, which in turn means the hand dryer is enough. Plus, foam is fun. I would push the dispenser more than once, but that would probably require me to use more water, which ultimately means more of my pants becoming towels.

So thank you, Foam Soap Inventor, for cutting 4.1 seconds off my time in the bathroom. In this case, the power truly is yours!

Dear Dad Standing in the Gym Locker Room Last Week as His Son Got Dressed,

And "standing" is the key word, because if you were helping him, then I wouldn't be as angry at you as I am.

I seem to get the gym locker room after work around the same time as a swim team practice, so locker and bench space is at a premium. On this night, all of the lockers seemed to be filled until I found one in the back row.

That's where I found you and your son. Junior looked to be somewhere between the ages of 6 and 13, old enough to dress himself. He sat in the middle of the bench, his back facing the locker I wanted to use. His stuff was spread out around him on the bench.

You were leaning against the lockers, watching him get dressed, not really helping him. Now, if I were you, I would have moved some of Junior's stuff on the floor as a courtesy, giving your fellow man some space to change. Or, I would've stopped talking about what Mom's making for dinner and urged Junior to finish getting dressed so the two of us could get home and find out.

Instead, you chose the third option - to continue standing there and wondering, too, what Mom is making for dinner. So I'm forced to change standing in my locker while the two of you try to guess tonight's menu.

You, Dad, might be wondering why I didn't say anything, why I didn't ask Junior (or you) to move his stuff. Because I shouldn't need to, that's why. If someone comes to change near me in the locker room, my first move instinctively is to bring my bag closer to me so we both have some space. It's a little thing called "common courtesy."

Actually, now that I think about it, I guess I should thank you for providing the anger that fueled my subsequent run.

But I still hope your dinner was terrible.

Scenes from a Timonium diner

Nothing's finer than being at your diner.
- Montesquieu. Or Seinfeld. (I always get them confused.)

A rainy Sunday morning and we're meeting her friends for brunch. The cookies in the dessert case are as big as your eyes get when you see giant cookies.

"You make all gone, I'll get you a cookie," I say as I put my hand on her lower back. Her smile can't hide her eye roll. Bless her for putting up with me.

We are walked to our table, the first ones there. She slides into one booth. I pause. To slide on her side means we'd be the people sitting on the same side of the table, even if it's only temporary. To me, there are only two times when that is acceptable:

1. You're at an outdoor cafe in Paris
2. You'd be looking at the dessert case or the chef preparing the food in front of you
   

I admire the blueberry muffins as I sit next to her. I mention my feelings about same-side sitting.

"I think it's OK," she says.

Hmmm, I never thought of it that way. Maybe she's right.

The other couple arrives. She's known the girl since college, and I've never met either of them, so I'm glad to be sitting across from the guy. We can always talk sports when the girl talk breaks out.

Before that can happen, though, it's time to order. The waitress has already circled back twice; another time and I'm probably in for a 30 percent tip. We're ready this time.

If brunch is the best meal of the day (and it is), then a diner is the best place for brunch. So many options, so little time. I waffle between an omelet and French toast but go for the latter. Open-faced turkey and French toast are the true tests of any diner.

I hedge my bet and get a scrambled egg, too.

The whole meal is pleasant, the food delicious. The diner doesn't have the Lazy Susan filled with syrups in various flavors, but the single packets on the table don't leave your hands sticky. Call it a push.

The obligatory Loud, Crying Baby at a Crowded Restaurant is only heard from once. The waitress keeps coming back for refills; I'm in now for a 25 percent tip, minimum.

The slightly hungover, college-age trio leaves the table nearby, replaced by the teenage goths. Forget the chefs; these three should be wearing the hairnets around the food. At least the black clothes are slimming. I'm glad my teenage rebellion phase just was frosted tips.

The girls excuse themselves to go to the bathroom for the girl talk. My new friend guesses they'll be talking about me. I nod in agreement and we talk about the Duke-UNC game.

They get back and it's time to fight over the check. We go for the Solomonic 50-50 split. I like these people even more.

By the cashier are those white mints with the flavors hidden inside. On the off chance I get a licorice-flavored one, I decide not to risk ruining brunch.

We say our goodbyes outside and go to our respective cars.

"That was fun," I say as we drive away. "I like them."

She nods in agreement. She didn't make all gone.

I should've gotten a cookie anyways.

Life in the (kinda) fast lane

I'm a slow driver, although you wouldn't know it from the flurry of speeding tickets I accumulated in Prince George's and Montgomery counties a month ago.

(Note to the City of College Park: Speed cameras on Route 1? Really? The 4,241 people you have giving out parking tickets aren't generating enough revenue? Just set up a tollbooth charging people $25 to enter and exit College Park and get it over with.)

My friends would say a No. 2 pencil has more lead than my foot. I'm not the guy doing 40 on the Beltway, more like 60 to 65. The left lane, like the middle button of a sports coat, is sometimes territory for me.

My driving gene comes from my father, who has never met a speed limit sign he didn't like. One of my mom's favorite and frustrating hobbies is counting the cars that pass my dad when he's driving. You should hear her when the car gets passed by a truck somewhere in Delaware farm country on the way to Ocean City.

Personally, my driving has never bothered me. I still get to where I'm going and get there safely. You don't need one of those driving school, passenger-side breaks if you're riding shotgun with me.

That said, I do have a tendency to tailgate, at least accidentally. For example, say I'm in the right lane of the Beltway less than a mile away from my exit and I'm quickly approaching a slower car.
My first reaction would be to wave to my dad. But then I have a choice: do I stay in the lane because my exit is quickly approaching? Or do I change lanes to pass the slow car?

Most times, I stay in the right lane. Then I start tailgating and getting angry I didn't pass the car. Which makes me tailgate more, as if I can will the car in front of me to get out of the way. It's all I can do not to glare at the person when I finally pass them.

There is one instance, however, when tailgating is wholly appropriate - nay, required. It happened to me the other night as I was driving home on a two-lane road. There were no cars behind or in front of me. As I was coming upon the entrance to a development, a car took a quick right-hand from the side street into my lane, causing me to put my foot on the brake. The car then proceeded to go, and I'm estimating here, -23 mph.

This driver, and his ilk, should be arrested on the spot. It's one thing to make the quick cut-in and floor it; it's a whole other thing to cut someone off and essentially rub it in his face.

I just wish it happened in College Park. That move is worth at least a $50 fine, right?