A night of navel gazing at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 08/05/2019 (2708 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Today, we are going to confront an embarrassing issue that many guys of my gender are forced to face whenever they muster the courage to get off the couches in their dens and venture out into the real world.

This is one of those issues that is difficult to discuss in a family newspaper, but today, I am going to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak, and tackle it in the courageous manner you have come to expect from a crusading newspaper columnist with naturally curly hair.

The alarming issue I am talking about — and brace yourselves because I am going to state this in a blunt, matter-of-fact manner — is: Chronic Shirt Gaping!

Whew! Do I ever feel better getting that off my chest. The cruel reality is that guys of my particular gender frequently have to deal with Chronic Shirt Gaping, or CSG, whenever we are compelled to put on tight-fitting dress shirts and appear in public places.

If you are not familiar with CSG, it basically involves the fact that whenever husky guys like me — I am talking about guys who are roughly the size and shape of a propane barbecue — put on a nice shirt, then leave our homes, it is only a matter of time before the middle button unexpectedly pops open, leaving a gaping hole that causes our hairy belly buttons to be exposed to innocent bystanders in the immediate vicinity.

The reason this happens — and I have just Googled it — is because our bellies, like the universe itself, are constantly expanding, putting a great deal of pressure on our shirt buttons and causing them to pop open.

I face this fashion crisis head-on whenever I go out wearing one of the “Big Man Shirts” that my wife buys for me at Christmas and on my birthday. What we are talking about here are oversized shirts that have fancy designs on the cuffs (which you wear folded back) and on the collar. These shirts are meant to be worn untucked, because when, like me, you are a husky individual, tucking a shirt in causes your belly area to look as though you are attempting to smuggle a regulation basketball or an inflatable pool toy inside your clothing.

Whenever I wear one of these shirts in public, at some point, without fail, the middle button will pop open and I will spend a good portion of the evening wandering around wondering why everyone else is staring uncomfortably at my midsection.

For instance, there I was on Friday night, perched on a stool in front of a large crowd attending a performance of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s brilliant new ballet, The Wizard of Oz.

My wife and I were invited to attend because I was asked to host the ballet’s pre-show chat, wherein an “outstanding local personality,” or OLP, gets up in front of the crowd and conducts an informative and entertaining interview with someone from the ballet.

On this night, there I was, microphone in hand, engaging in artistic banter with Julian Pellicano, the brilliant resident conductor for the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra who was the maestro for all the performances of The Wizard of Oz.

I don’t wish to brag, but Julian and I delivered a sparkling interview that clearly captivated the crowd — at least, it did until the portion wherein I was encouraging the audience to ask Julian some probing questions.

Which is when, from out of the blue, I heard a noise that sounded like air escaping from a punctured tire.

“Pssssssst!!!” went the noise. It was distracting, but I attempted to maintain my focus on the interview, until the noise grew much louder and more determined.

“PSSSSSSSSST!!!” came the noise. Which is when I casually scanned the crowd and noticed that my wife, She Who Must Not Be Named, was sitting in the front row and gesticulating in a dramatic fashion to catch my attention.

In between fielding questions, I looked directly at my wife and gave her my famous what-the-(bad word)-do-you-want? look.

And that’s when she began pointing frantically at my stomach and hissing under her breath: “The middle button on your shirt is open, dear. Everyone can see your belly button.”

Naturally, being a consummate professional, I pretended nothing was amiss, held the microphone with one hand and continued discussing ballet with the maestro, while secretly using my other hand to button up my shirt.

Ha ha ha! OK, I am lying. That’s what would have happened in an alternate universe. In this universe, what I did was suddenly stop talking, stare down at my protruding belly, then put the microphone to my lips and loudly proclaim: “Sorry, everyone, but my wife has just informed me that my shirt is unbuttoned and you have been forced to look directly into my belly button.”

With the crowd looking on, I sucked my stomach in as much as is humanly possible when you are perched on a stool in front of a large audience, then clumsily dealt with this very public example of Chronic Shirt Gaping.

When I finally pulled myself together and grinned an idiotic grin, my wife and the rest of the kind-hearted crowd gave me a comforting round of applause.

So it was a great evening, all in all. The ballet was a triumph, and my pre-show chat with the maestro was a huge success, provided you overlook the gaping hole in the middle.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca