Day 9: Doing bench press while listening to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” is BTS

When A.R. first invited me to join him for a weekend in Fire Island for my blog, I tried to play it cool. “But how can you say that you’re above these sexual urges unless you’ve pushed yourself to the edge?” – the edge, in this case, being the parade of scantily clad men and their pectoral vegetation on two blistering-hot days in the Pines. Now my commitment to my hunger strike could rival even Gandhi’s so the challenge didn’t faze me at all. Why not? “Omigod, that would be, like, so hot!” I chirped with a hint of sarcasm (although I was secretly getting more excited about the idea) before adding, “and promise me we’ll hit all the underwear parties that weekend!” Little did I know that my faux bluster would soon come back to bite me in the ass (through spandex and lycra).

If I’m not going to get laid for the next 100 days, I might as well look hot doing it – or not doing it – and, four hours later, at home, I still couldn’t decide which low-cut denim bikini to buy online. Was I a “Dante”, with its back yoke detail, side rivets and fully lined front or more of an “Ethan”, a sleek affair with nickel buckles on the side and gold thread double stitch? Now Dante was cute but a little too easy and frivolous, even for denim. Ethan, on the other hand, exuded a relaxed dignity and a take-my-attempt-at-butchness-seriously vibe that Demi Moore tried to pull off in G.I. Jane. Alas, for all of his nickel buckles, Ethan wasn’t playful enough. ‘Tis a delicate thing, choosing the perfect number for an underwear party. One wrong turn in the Kinsey bikini continuum and you could tip toward slut, square or Borat.

And it doesn’t stop at the underwear, no. As God is my witness, I shall never let some random Chelsea boy turn his nose up at my body. I’m neither fat nor flabby; in fact, I’m lean though my chest and arms need just a little more work. Whenever I’m at the gym, though, I couldn’t seem to get really worked up about working out. Which is bizarre, since I usually have more conviction than Penelope Cruz attempting to deliver her lines in English. 

But this past weekend,  I think I may have found the Holy Grail of workouts as I accidentally hit the button on Michael Jackson’s “Off The Wall” album on my Ipod. As the first track comes on, Michael makes his twinky come-on, “You know I was wondering…”, before the affair erupts in a glorious crescendo of trumpets and percussion and an epiphany came over me: Isn’t Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough the perfect musical accompaniment to the upper chest workout routine of an obssessive-compulsive? Its brand of uptempo is breakneck and breathless, an anthem for anxiety-prone cheerleaders trading their pompoms for dumbells. The pace is so fast that I can’t listen to it without a clock ticking in my head counting down to my weekend in the Pines or male cheerleaders waving letter placards spelling out “FIRE ISLAND” and who can easily turn nasty if I even think of stopping at….8, 9, 10, 11…uuuhhhh…12 reps. Yes, I did it!

Having said that, I can’t help thinking that, on a subconscious level, perhaps the reason why I like Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough is that there’s a chance it might be the theme song to a future blog, the one where I make up for the action I’m missing right now. Scary. 

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