I've recently taken to wearing a belt. Do I have a use for a belt? Well, no, I always wear the warmup pants with elastic waists, but it's decorative. The belt is olive green and woven with a metal buckle and end. Parts of it are a little frayed. Always the same way; shirt half tucked-in on the right, falling left, belt above my waist on the left, below it on the right, buckle on my left, slack going behind. I like the way it looks, and hey, it makes me looker taller than I am.
I find myself on the bus going home. My friend, to whom I haven't spoken for a while, takes a seat next to me. The first four words to leave his mouth are "What's with the belt?"
I answer him the same way I answer everyone else. "Chicks dig it." There really is no reason, I just like it, but it's a more interesting response than a shrug of the shoulders, regardless of veracity.
"No they don't!" he retorts. I don't see why my half-serious remark got him so excited, but he continues by saying that I'm terrible with women. He may have a point, but that's its own anecdote. I turn to the girl behind me and ask "Hey, what do you think of the belt?," snapping my fingers excitedly.
"Oh, that's real sexy. I love the olive green with the purple shirt."
If the Internet has taught me anything, it's that by far the most effective technique in any dispute is twisting words. I hardly consider sincerity an important criterion at this point.
"What'd I tell you?"
Not ten seconds later, he expresses surprise at this girl doing well on one test or another. She yells at him for what must be five minutes. Then, a lull. Here it is, that fleeting fulcrum for a witty remark.
"And you say I'm bad with women."
Adendum, four years later: Well, in retrospect, the thought that I really used to go around in warm-up pants, a purple polo, and an olive green belt about my waste is more than a little embarrassing.