Today we bought a new exercise bike, the bearing on our old one is finally wearing out. Standing in the showroom my wife wanted to try the new bike for size, so she handed me her handbag before taking to the saddle.
Without thinking I was about to slip it onto my shoulder girl-style when I suddenly realised I was the tallest and most noticeable bloke in a room full of bodybuilders and fitness fanatics.
Whoops! Sudden shift into the approved bloke method of carrying a handbag, forearm at right angles to body, grip the bag strap as though it was a power tool, let it hang as though I really had no clue why this feminine thing happens to be in my hand. Phew! Nobody noticed!
I'm reminded of the "I'm-definitely-not-gay" school of motorcycle pillion who sits so far back on the bike that a fast getaway leaves them on the tarmac. What's so scary about a damn handbag!
The new bike is bigger and more robust than its predecessor for a reason. I'm taking Calie's advice and cutting down on the porklife.