It’s about time I talk about Kitten-Shirt-Guy. He and I have never actually met, but we see each other most mornings in the weight room of the gym at the Holiday Inn. I’ve not met him on purpose. I like my name for him and I don’t want to feel obligated to call him by his real name, if only in my head and to those lucky enough to hear my tattles of his exploits.
Kitten-Shirt wears sunglasses. All the time. They are the black, biker-style, wrap-around kind and I wonder if he wears them brushing his teeth in the morning. I wonder if he does brush his teeth in the morning. I’ve deciphered from his Arabic slang (he spends half his gym time on the phone) that he is Kuwait and Kuwaitis aren’t known for their dental regimen.
Kitten-Shirt is bald – shaved head – so he’s fierce, not follicle-y challenged. The extra-thick mustache is added proof of that. Kitten-Shirt is shorter than me and wears Zumbas pants. Remember those? MC Hammer’s version of chef pants. He also wears black Converse with white laces, his only redeeming fashion quality. But, as you would guess, Kitten-Shirt is so named because of his choice of torso coverings. He favors the muscle-baring, low-cut "nipple shirts," as I like to call them; the weightlifter's answer to the spaghetti strap girly-tank.
There I was, doing my usual routine of lunges and twists when I saw it: A brilliant white, cut-at-home nipple-shirt tied in little knots at the shoulders (to give just the right amount of peek-a-boo cleavage) and decorated with an adorable iron-on tiger kitten front and center. I think he made it himself. Biker sunglasses, mean face, inflated muscles with bulging veins and a tiger kitten – cute as a button – on his skimpy shirt.
Sadly, Kitten-Shirt-Guy is the most entertaining anecdote of my mornings. I wonder what he will do tomorrow… Must work-out to find out. And that's turning a frown upside-down.
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