Where Candy Ass becomes a biker via a not so much mid-life crisis as it a third-of-life crisis

Seriously, you have no idea how long I've been dying to post about Candy Ass' latest obsession. At first, I dismissed the idea of blogging about it because, really, the jokes just came all too easily. (And who doesn't appreciate a challenge?) Then I tried the whole let's-be-mature-about-this-Megan approach and well, HERE I AM, blogging about it. Obviously that tactic didn't work.

Candy Ass - in the midst of his third-of-life crisis which has included a huge flat-screen TV and surround system that makes the entire house rumble like an aftershock of male orgasmic proportions - has taken on a new hobby to cope with being a 30-something male. (You know, because being 30-something AND a man is so. hard.)

He's become a biker.

There are only two kinds of you ladies out there reading this. Depending on which you are, you're either thinking a) come to mama, you leather-chapped stallion or, b) biker? really? becoming a cowboy would have been so much more RAWRRRRRR. No matter who you are or which you think, be prepared to be disappointed (after you're finished laughing at the whole Candy Ass becoming a biker thing of course).

The truth is, there are no 'leathers' or 'colors' (Candy Ass never was made for the world of gangs or organized crime despite his [frankly worrisome] love of Sons of Anarchy) and there is no Harley or whatever other brands of motorcycles there are out there parked in our garage or driveway. Nope.

Instead, let me paint you a picture of a man in tight strategically padded spandex biker shorts, a fitted spandex shirt that is designed to look like the inside of a man's upper torso complete with ribs, a spine (think that weird science dude you watched in science class when you were in junior high who wore a full body suit that looked like your insides) and - get this - a heart that's fashioned (and I use that word loosely) out of a bike chain. I call it his leotard.

Yep, Candy Ass is that kind of biker... a cyclist. Helmet, click-in shoes and a bicycle ("road bike" as he calls it to save face) with a seat that looks like it could also give you a colonoscopy.

Sexay.

OK, before you deem me a total asshole for making fun of my husband and his quest to be healthy and fit via leotard and socks special ordered to match his bike, let me just say that YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIVE WITH HIM when he comes home from a "ride" and tells you over and over again HOW MANY MILES! and HOW FAST! and HOW MANY CALORIES! and meanwhile you're having to pinch your nose from the tinny smell of sweat, much preferring he saved the wild! (whoa boy!) tale of his trek for after his shower. BUT LOVE YA BABE! PROUD OF YOU!

Truthfully, if anyone can pull of a cyclist's get-up, it's Candy Ass. And he's lost more than 40 pounds in the last few months. So really? I am an asshole. But we already knew that.

Candy Ass just thinks I'm jealous (HA!) because I don't even know how to ride a bike. Pffft. Riding bikes are overrated. And also? DANGEROUS. Besides, you won't ever see my fat jiggly ass in spandex of any kind. You'd have to sew it on and cut if off. No thanks and you're welcome.

But hon, AWESOME JOB! 45 MILES! UPHILL! 18 MILES PER HOUR! Did you bring me back lunch by any chance? (Or something less asshole-ish.)

*

Side note: When I told Candy Ass I was going to out him and his new hobby on my blog all he wanted to be certain of was: "Make sure you tell them that the 18 mph is only the *average* speed which means most of the time I'm actually going faster than that." And then he does some little hand gesture that made me think OH MY GOD I'M MONICA AND MARRIED TO CHANDLER and whispers, "and yes, sometimes a little slower BUT MOSTLY? FASTER!"

I. rest. my. case.

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