Big Son came to tell me that he had gotten Bigger. Over the holidays. He was wearing his school uniform. He stood in the doorway and flexed a muscle boy flex pose. “See Mum? I think I need new shirts. My chest, my back, my arms – they’ve grown and I cant fit these shirts anymore.”
He is triumphant. Because the boy doesn’t want to be Big Son. He wants to be Bigger Son. And to that end, he works out every day. Consumes disgusting protein drinks that his father bought for him. And eats way too many egg whites. (He also pesters me to buy steak and take him to Burger King everyday which is supposedly meant to be rocket fuel for big muscles in some teenager boy’s fantasy universe – but dont worry, I’m not stupid. I dont fall for it. I tell him to eat cornflakes for dinner like all the rest of us. I mean, heck, its working for me. Look how much bigger Im getting?)
So yes, Big Son has been working very hard on his muscular development. And is rather pleased with himself and his progress. I look at his shirt that is streeeeeeeeetching to the point of wardrobe malfunction and yes, I can concede that Big Son is indeed getting Bigger.
But I’m not happy about it. Because school shirts are expensive. Like chop my arm off and sell it to science expensive. And this is Big Son’s last year in high school so I don’t want to spend precious dollars on new shirts that he will only wear for a mere twelve months. (I mean, how am I supposed to get my nails shellac’d if I buy this child new shirts? Pay for hotels and lovely dinners in lovely restaurants? There goes my plans for expensive illicit nights out with the Hot Man…)
So no. I dont want to buy Big Son new shirts. “You dont want to get bigger shirts son.”
“No, these shirts better emphasize the contours and definition of your new muscles. If you get bigger shirts – how will all the girls SEE your fabulous new build properly? Trust me son, I know what I’m talking about.”
He is unconvinced. “Whatever Mum. You just dont want to buy me new shirts.” Why does this child have to be so clever for? He shakes his head and walks off.
I dont give up. I call after him, “Hey, just think, with tight shirts like that, you could have a wardrobe malfunction at school like Sonny Bill Williams! And we all know how much buzz THAT caused. That could be you! Go on, imagine you’re standing in school assembly and your shirt rips to bits and now practise taking your shirt off in a very athletic way…”
He makes a puke face. Big Son is not a SBW fan. I try again and yell after his retreating buff’d back. “No, you know who you look like in that shirt? The Hulk! You could be the Hulk of your school. No girls will be able to resist you. Go on, do a pose – say it, ‘Hulk Smash!'”
For some odd reason, Big Son doesnt want to listen to anything more I have to say on the matter.
I cant imagine why.