Buff: (adj) being in good physical shape with fine muscle tone.
Although I agree that sexual purity is a noble state, sexual deprivation more resembles North Dakota.
I was kind of born fat.
I know that sounds like a cop-out, and it probably is–but since I was twelve-and-a-half pounds when I popped out of my mother, and three hundred pounds by the time I reached the 7th grade, it is safe to say there were not many intervals of “lean” in between.
So even though I worked on a good personality, a generous spirit and nourishing my talent, I have traveled the Earth with what appears to be a spare belly. I don’t know what it would ever be used for–it just seems to take up space, unexplained.
Recently, one of my dear friends, who happens to be female, told me that another friend saw me about twenty years back, when I was deeply absorbed, or perhaps even possessed, in the notion of exercise, and described me as “buff.”
I almost wet my pants.
The notion of me being buff, or considered buff, or even curiously perceived buff by a near-sighted man, gave me an uncontrollable tingle down my spine.
For a moment, I felt alluring, without feeling the need to allure.
I was appealing, without needing to pursue pleasant dialogue which might make me seem interesting.
There is an old saying that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” If by that the writer intended to express that we are crazy and bonkers, then I agree.
But if we don’t feel presentable, we don’t feel happy.
And if we don’t feel happy, we try to make other people’s lives miserable.
And once miserable, they will certainly find us even more unappealing.