As a big man there have been several restrictions that I have placed on myself in order to spare me from potential embarrassment. I don’t wear shorts in public. Not even the long baggy ones that go slightly past the knees. Very few big’s can pull off shorts. Our stocky calves and wide frame, just make us look like super-sized children, wearing their daddy’s clothe. Not cool. I don’t wear wife-beaters. Maybe if I had large defined biceps, with triceps to match, I wouldn’t be so hesitant to show off my arms. But since my guns are flabby I restrain myself or risk being confused for a resurrected Captain Lou Albano. Last, but definitely not least. I do everything in my power to avoid having to dance.
I think I carry my 340 pounds pretty well, If I do say so myself. I don’t walk with a wobble. I don’t break out into a sweat for just breathing. For the most part I feel like a really wide skinny person. That is until I get on the dance floor. Then all bets are off. I lose control of my limbs. I have very limited sense of space. My movements become jerky and awkward. I feel like I’m moving around like a mechanical bear that has a bunch of busted hydraulics. I don’t have a shred of grace. Which is a damn shame. Because you see, I kinda dig what some would consider a good dance track. Electronic, Dubstep, Chillwave, New Age, R&B are all musical genres that get my mountain like body moving. But I won’t allow myself to participate. Just feel too embarrassed. Too cool for school.
So When I hear a song like Bruno Mars – Treasure, I am relegated to keeping my butt off the dance floor, and bust-a-groove in my head. But let me tell ya, in my mind, I move like one graceful motha’. I’m a sight to behold. M.J. got nothing on me.