Weddings, Births, and Anniversaries

My wife and I had a Big Formal Wedding coming up in about six months. normally I forget about events until Sharon reminds me to bring my tux to the cleaners, but this one was different: she wanted to show off. She decided that we should dress up and dance at the BF Wedding – and by ‘dress up’ she meant wearing the clothes we wore to our son Seth’s Bar Mitzvah in 1987.

In 1987, when we were… younger. Oh, my.

There were two problems with her plans. First, I have always been a hopelessly inept dancer. I was born with a genetic disability: I am missing the gene that allows a man to dance and not look like a trained bear. (The good news is that I am allowed to use handicapped parking.)

The other, more obvious problem is that Sharon really wanted to wear clothing that fit us twenty years earlier. I weigh less now than then but a lot of poundage has shifted to my stomach. It’s another one of those genetic handicap/trained bear issues: my old pants may be tight but I could hibernate very successfully.

Regardless of the odds, when she decided we would dance I decided to lose some more weight. I already eat less than is reasonable for Man or Bear and had no interest in cutting my intake any further, so I decided to increase my exercise intensity. I changed a route I was taking about three times each week, from two miles on flat ground to three miles over some decent hills. And I always exercise my upper body as I walk. It’s a very intense workout for someone with all those ursine issues.

In the hot summer sun I like to take off my shirt and walk along in my gym shorts. No one is going to mistake me for, say, Leo DiCaprio but what do I care? Leo may be skinny but I can swim. For years it was easy. I walked along a quiet trail behind my house and rarely encountered anyone, and then I would simply ignore my usual modesty. I was having too much fun walking and sweating in the sun and besides, most of the people I passed didn’t look any better than I did.

However, changing my route changed a lot of things. The new route goes along a nature trail for about 1 mile, but for two miles it passes through a wealthy neighborhood. Houses in the $2 - $6 M range, a few worth more. Big lawns with circular driveways. Three and four-car garages with Italian sorts cars. It’s not a neighborhood that sees a lot of sweaty grandpas walking around with their shirts off, unless Gramps is the pool boy.

I guess it was only a matter of time before I got stopped. By a patrol car. This by itself is amazing. San Jose is the safest big city in the country and we have a tiny police force. Years can go by between the times I spot a patrol car, and then it is usually someone going home. But some cop saw me – perhaps on his way to arrest Paris Hilton – and he decided we should chat.

“Excuse me, sir; it’s illegal to walk in public without your shirt on.” Hmmm… I could see the problem if La Hilton was the person walking along topless, but not me. I played along.

“I didn’t know that, officer.”

“You’ve got to be covered up unless you’re at poolside.” What obscure police manuals has this cop been studying? And why wasn’t he studying something about actual criminals?

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a decency thing. Gotta do it.” Of course! I was indecent! Can you imagine the long-term emotional damage that could occur to some virginal sixteen-year old girl if, upon seeing a shirtless Grandpa, she fell into a swoon? And California is overrun with swoon-prone virginal sixteen-year olds.

You’ll be shocked to learn that the sight of my indecently exposed chest has never caused a single teenaged girl to swoon, or even to feel dizzy. It has caused several to giggle uncontrollably but I don’t think that counts. Regardless, the cop was babbling uncontrollably and he was not giggling and he was wearing a gun, so I put my shirt on. My raggy white droopy muscle shirt. A shirt I bought seven years ago because it provides maximum exposure to the air and allows me to avoid overheating while exercising. A shirt that exposes most of my chest, including the gray hair and the scar from open heart surgery. A shirt that often rides up over my grandpa-sized belly (which I tend to discuss far more often than is healthy.) A shirt so pathetic that if Leo DiCaprio saw me wearing it he would ask if I had just escaped from Darfur.

I said, “How’s that, officer?”

The cop said, “That’s better.”

Better than what? I started to say “You have low standards.” but then I decided not to push my luck. I didn’t have any money on me and Officer Krupke could have locked me up as an indigent. A topless indigent.

Five minutes later I realized that I would probably never see him again and that if I did all he could do was make me cover up a second time. I took off my droopy muscle shirt and looked for some 16-year old virgins to horrify. Never found any.

This happened almost a month ago and I’m still hoping to see that cop again. I want to try my Sharon Stone line on him: “What are you going to do? Arrest me for sweating?”

Anyway, by now you may have forgotten (I almost did) that the purpose of the intensified exercise campaign was to help me lose weight and fit into my ancient tuxedo pants for the Big Formal Wedding. But then two things happened. First, I tried on the ancient tuxedo pants and found that they fit perfectly. Apparently the combination of exercising and horrifying virgins worked. And then we received the invitation.

The ceremony was held in a dog park in San Francisco. We were all asked to bring our dogs. Our English Bulldog had a great time and I didn’t have to dance. Didn’t have to wear my old tuxedo, either. Instead, I wore my raggy white droopy muscle shirt.