Dressed to Compress ...
In my quest to keep up with the fashion of the younger crowd, I thought I should try some shiny bicycling shorts that seem to be all the rage these days. As I walked into the sports store, a young woman wearing form-fitting spandex descended upon me, perhaps drawn by the fashion statement I was making with my baggy knee-length beige shorts.
“Ah, I, I, would like to try bike shorts,” I stammered. A look of delight lit up the salesperson’s face. She led me to a rack of black, shiny spandex shorts, the largest being approximately the size of a small hankie. It seems like the first Ford, they were available in any colour, as long as it was black. The thought of wearing skin-tight, black shorts on a blazing hot summer day made me pause a moment, but I bravely continued my quest.
“Ah, do you have any my size?” I queried. It seems that my size, much to the deflation of my male ego, seemed to be rather microscopic. She handed me a pair of shiny shorts, with a price tag that equalled the cost of my first bike.
When I enquired if she might have any less pricey pantaloons, she rolled her eyes and pointed to the “discount rack.” I began sorting through shorts with names such as, “Streamline-Lycra, Skin-Tytes, Ultra-Compression, Hot-dawg,” and other such names, causing me some consternation regarding a certain part of my male anatomy.
Adding to the confusion was the fact that they were available in regular-padded, ultra-padded, triathlon-padded, or unpadded. I chose unpadded, as having a built-in cod-piece seemed unbecoming of an older gentleman such as myself.
After much sorting, I managed to find the largest pair of “compression shorts” I could find under a hundred dollars and headed to the change room.
To say they were tight would be an understatement. They made a blood-pressure cuff feel positively roomy. The exposed flesh above my knobby knees was bulging out like a weak spot on an inner tube. My varicose veins looked like spaghetti and meatballs on a plate.
And as far as being discreet, I could have spray painted my nether region with black paint and had more coverage. The see-through, sheer black shorts looked like something a ballet dancer would be embarrassed to wear.
I stepped out of the change room, feeling rather vulnerable, and certainly “compressed,” if you know what I mean.
“Seem’s a bit tight,” I said in a falsetto voice. The salesperson assured me they seemed about right. I was starting to feel faint. When I hinted that I also felt rather exposed, the salesgirl gazed at my area of complaint for a moment, then suggested I try the padded version.
Not one to give up easily, I tried the “regular-padded-skin-tyte-lycra-spandex-compression shorts.” Now I felt like I was wearing a diaper, with the added benefit of being even more “compressed.” But at least my, um, manhood was hidden behind a large, pear-shaped pad. I sauntered out of the change room with a bow-legged gait that looked like I had been riding a horse all day.
“Those are perfect” the salesgirl insisted, with the self-confident tones of a younger person talking to her father. She whisked my baggy shorts from the bench, handed them to me and told me to go for a ride … after I paid for the new shorts, of course.
I waddled out the door, and by the time I got to my bike my feet had already gone to sleep from lack of circulation. With some effort I lifted one compressed leg over the top bar, and then cycled away. Within a kilometre the circulation below my waist had completely ceased to function. By kilometre two, my buns were baking and my unmentionables were as hot as boiled eggs. Another kilometre, and I could no longer breathe. By the time I stopped for a rest, I was seeing double.
If you see a pair of toddler-sized, black, diaper-lined spandex shorts hanging from a bush, I have no idea who they belong to. I’m the gentleman wearing a pair of baggy beige shorts, pedaling contentedly with a cool breeze up each leg.
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