I rarely boogie down these days, and I don’t take my shirt off in public. About two months ago I did both. My wife dragged me onto the dance floor at a small Mexican-themed party. I’d done about four tequila shots. The limbs were loose, the spirit almost willing. I wanted to remove my heavy denim shirt before doing any vigorous contortions. In ripping off my outer layer, my T-shirt was also dragged up, prompting someone to grab the under-garment and rip it over my head. So there I was gyrating topless — and only slightly self-conscious in the strobes. It was only the next day that the true horror set in. Someone had snapped some pics and posted them on our tennis group. There I was — easily the greatest slab of dad bod this side of Muizenberg. Possibly the enormity of the situation was exaggerated — after all, the person nearest to me was my regular tennis partner Willie, who puts the velt into svelte.
But regime change was clearly overdue. So I have forgone my erratic jogging...
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