The Downside of Being Up by Alan Sitomer

bothering to say good-bye to my dream girl.

9
    Later that afternoon, since it was Thursday, after the usual seventy-three boners I get per day without a clue in the world as to how to handle them, I walked into correctional erectional therapy to meet with Dr. Cox, feeling lower than low. I mean, here I was on the verge of actually talking with the bestest, nicest, most attractive girl I had ever known and all I managed to do was get punched in my corn kernels and make her father think I was dumber than a lamppost.
    â€œToday we will try a different perspective,” she said as I entered the room. Again she wore a sleeveless top. Her forearms looked like rulers. “No need to sit, Bobby, we’re going for a ride.”
    â€œA ride?” I said. “Where?”
    â€œSince the informational approach did not seem to make the inroads I had hoped, we are going to try the physiological approach to transformation through chakra alignment.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œYoga,” she answered, tossing me some clothes. “We’re going to yoga. You can change into those once we get to the studio.”
    Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in a wooden-floored exercise room with twenty babes-of-the-century.
    And they were all wearing skintight leotards.
    â€œI’m not too sure this is a good idea,” I said as I looked around. A supermodel bent over at the waist two feet in front of me.
    â€œChannel the energy, Bobby. Channel the energy,” Dr. Cox instructed.
    I paused.
    â€œUm . . .”
    A moment later, a second supermodel crossed the room and bent over, right next to her friend.
    Uh-oh, I suddenly realized. They weren’t friends. They were twins!
    â€œNo, really, Dr. Cox,” I nervously said. “This is a bad idea.”
    Dr. Cox tied her sandy brown hair back into a ponytail and prepared for the start of class.
    â€œLike, a bad, bad, bad idea,” I continued pleading with her. “Plus, these tight-fitting pants you’re making me wear—”
    â€œChannel the energy, Bobby,” she instructed again. Then Dr. Cox closed her eyes and took a long, slow, deep, spiritual breath. “Just channel the energy.”

10
    â€œWhat kind of sick person gets kicked out of a yoga class!?” my father snapped. He was really mad that he had to leave work to come pick me up from the exercise studio. Seems he had planned to stay late to impress his boss. Kissin’ up, that type of stuff.
    â€œBut it wasn’t my fault,” I answered as we walked through the front door.
    Mom, of course, was already in a tizzy.
    â€œOh my goodness,” she said as we entered. “I’ve mothered a pervert.” Mom closed the front door behind us, hoping the Holstons wouldn’t catch the drift of the latest news. “Talk to him, Phillip,” she said to my dad as she spun the red oval charm of her necklace around and around and around on its gold chain. “Talk to him.”
    â€œI’m not talking to him,” Dad said, taking off his coat. He loosened his tie but let it hang from his neck.
    â€œYou’ve got to talk to him, Phillip,” Mom insisted. “Maybe he needs some kind of man-to-man chat?”
    â€œHe doesn’t need a man-to-man chat,” Gramps answered. “What he needs is a jar of Vaseline and a stack of dirty magazines.”
    Gramps, sitting at the dining room table, popped a yellow jelly bean in his mouth and smiled. Mom glared at him, then turned back to Dad.
    â€œPhillip, you’re his father, for goodness’ sake,” Mom said.
    â€œSo? He’s my father,” Dad said, pointing at Gramps.
    â€œAt least that’s what his mother says,” Gramps answered. “Me, I’ve never been too sure.”
    â€œAgain with the epileptic milkman theory, huh, Pop?”
    â€œAll I have to say is two words: sloped forehead . Hillary, look closely,” Gramps said to my sister. “Do I have a