GEEK BEAT: The moob curse: hey my eyes are up here

There are two major things in the world that I never used to understand: the mystery that is woman, and the appeal of George Clooney.

This summer, however, all of that changed when I had one of those epiphany moments when everything suddenly became clear to me.

It’s not the kind of epiphany that most people would share with the world, but I’m pretty sure no one reading this has any respect for me left, so what the heck.

I had been living in China for about five weeks. All I had done since I got there was eat, watch the World Cup and let little kids beat me at badminton. Hardly the lifestyle to turn me into a kung fu master, but it was fun.

Then one day I was bouncing down the stairs to the street when I noticed that I was really bouncing, and not in the places a male person such as myself should be bouncing. Somewhere higher.

At first I thought it must be just a figment of my imagination, but I looked down and sure enough, I had man-boobs.

The appearance of man-boobs – or moobs as I shall refer to them from here on out – was something I had hoped to avoid entirely or at least until I was too old to ever get pulled into a shirts-on-skins basketball game.

No such luck.

The day I grew moobs was a total eye-opener though. It was as if I were seeing the world for the first time. Not as a man and not as a woman, but as some strange combination of the two.

With every step I took and each bump in the road the bus hit, I understood women better.

For the first time in my life, I felt self-conscience about my chest. Even though I know it wasn’t the case, I felt like everyone what staring at my moobs.

I was overcome with a rush of new and mixed feelings. I felt objectified. I felt exhilarated. I felt used, and I felt smarter.

It was strange to feel so enlightened and so dirty at the same time.

I can only assume this is how women feel all the time. Only it would have to be worse for women because people really are staring at their woman-boobs (woobs).

This experience has changed me as a man. I try to no longer treat women as a walking pair of woobs, because I know what it’s like to be a walking pair of moobs.

I never used to understand why women would get so upset when guys would check out their cleavage. My attitude was, if you don’t want guys staring at your woobs, you should leave them at home. Now I understand that that is no more possible than me leaving my moobs in my locker.

I am a changed man.

Or at least, I was. Every since I came back from vacation and started working out again, my body has returned to its original studly state.

Every day since my moobs have been downgraded, I’ve found it harder to connect with women. We no longer have anything in common.

I’ve tried to start up conversations, just to get back in touch with my feminine side (which was my front side), but they all end in disaster.

I’ll be minding my own business when some female person with parts of her woobs exposed walks by. “Nice chest,” I tell her, figuring she could use a compliment from someone who understands her pain.

“What?” she demands, not nearly as appreciative as I assumed she would be.

So I clarify. “Your chest, it’s a good one. I admire you’re ability to have it permanently. I had quite the pair of moobs for a while, but I had to get rid of them because of the…” By this point I’m usually talking to myself or knocked out.

Don’t worry ladies, I’ll try to stay enlightened. Maybe I should eat more pudding.

I’m still confused about the George Clooney thing though.

Geek on.

Steve Shinney is a senior in computer science. He cannot touch his elbows behind his back, don’t even bother asking. Send comments to him at steveshinney@cc.usu.edu.