By: Lydia Crow
Not exactly the look he was going for, to be honest. He knew that he didn’t exactly look like a honed Adonis, an athletic gladiator who, having just dispatched his opponent, was idly jogging a victory lap, without even breaking a sweat. That was the point of starting running in the first place. But he had to admit to being a little crestfallen at his accidentally ridiculous choice of clothing.
Because it was him, fashion had decided to laugh cruelly at him. No, scratch that. Fashion had decided to spit in his face and stomp on what was left of his manly pride.
He’d only bought those particular shorts because the honed Adonis, the athletic gladiator (etc) in the shop had suggested them. Come to think of it, the twinkle in his eye possibly was less conspiratory ‘they’ll-impress-the-ladies’ and more ‘I-wouldn’t-be-seen-dead-in-those-you-pathetic-schmuck’.
Bollocks. He so didn’t want to have to resort to the hideous baggy shorts he’d not even touched since they were actually fashionable circa 1991, but they were the only other pair of shorts he possessed.
He glanced in the mirror and sucked his stomach in. It wasn’t too bad, he thought. Some of his friends were much worse. But then, some of his friends were much better.
Maybe he’d just buy a sports car instead.