I was walking through our mall’s major department store the other day on my way to the men’s section. Repeat: the men’s section. I don’t think they’ll even let a guy into the section if he’s into manscaping. So—did I mention I was on my way to the men’s section?
To get there, I had to walk through the women’s section. I was passing through with my eyes fixed straight ahead, a determined look on my face so if anyone saw me in the women’s section, he or she would say, “That man is on his way to the men’s section. Look at his collar. Look at all the hair coming out from under it. He’s probably got more hair on his chest than a sheep has wool. He’s heading for the men’s section for sure.” Little boys with their moms would stare, mouths open, and whisper, “I hope I look like that when I get older.” They would sneak a look under their shirts at their hairless chests, look at me and whisper, “Someday. Someday.”
Wheeling around a corner in the women’s section, striding purposefully, a steely gaze blazing out from under my manly (ungroomed) eyebrows, two days’ stubble on my face, my eyes fell on a mannequin diabolically placed at eye height. It was just her torso, actually. Before I could avert my eyes and look around for a set of wrenches or a hammer a man might have mistakenly left behind while he was waiting for his wife or girlfriend to pick out some dainty clothes, I saw the mannequin was wearing a brassiere. And beneath the brassiere was a sign with three words on it:
Now, one thing about men is that we not only make lemonade from lemons, but we also eat the rinds and spit out the seeds. Here I was at a lemonade moment, and I had one of my Million-Dollar Ideas. These are ideas that could earn at least a million dollars for anyone willing to run with them. I have these ideas all the time, but I don’t take advantage of them because I want other people to make the millions of dollars and thus make the world a better place. (Example: beer-scented candles.) On the other hand, if I were to accumulate a million dollars, I would fill a swimming pool with gin and probably wind up driving a Rolls-Royce into it like Keith Moon.
So: the phrase “Age-Defying Lift” led to a Million-Dollar Idea, and I immediately thought, “What if someone made a product for men that promised ‘Age-Defying Lift?’” It could come in boxers or briefs. It would lift our beer guts and love handles up into our abs, making our abs look not like a six-pack, but more like a 12-pack and maybe even a full case of 24. The garment could lift our excess poundage up to our chests so we could look like Superman and up to our forearms so we could look like Popeye. Our shirts would rip open at the sleeves from the excess muscles. Manscaped men—who would be prohibited from wearing this product—would weep with envy.
A garment is what you thought about when I proposed an “Age-Defying Lift” product for men, wasn’t it? After all, there are pills for anything else that needs lifting south of a guy’s waist. Not that we manly men need them.