I joined a fitness program offered by my workplace. As a programmer and tech enthusiast, I spent a lot of time on my butt. If spending time on your butt was a job in and of itself, I would have tenure. Needless to say, I could use the exercise, and I'd like to shed some lbs and transform into a sleeker, more streamlined geek. Plus, my butt muscles are as toned as they are gonna get from all this sitting--it's time I exercise something else.

As part of this program we are required to submit ourselves to a weigh-in and have body-fat measurements taken. In addition to hopping on a scale, a trainer has to poke and prod you with a pair of calipers to measure where you are storing all those ho-hos and extra servings of pie. Glutton that I am, I subjected myself to this torture just the other day.

Let me tell you, folks, there is nothing more ego deflating to a guy than to have to stand there while an attractive young female trainer grabs handfuls of flab and records it for posterity. It's hard to hit on a girl when you can't get your mind off the fact that, now shirtless, your man-boobs are readily apparent to her. My resignation was palpable.

Complicating matters was the fact that although I was genuinely attempting to allow her to collect accurate measurements, I couldn't help but do the same thing that any man or woman would do in the presence of an attractive member of the opposite sex: the suck in. This "poor man's tummy-tuck" is universal and ingrained to the point it is a reflex. Go to the beach some time and watch how many pot-bellied gentlemen suddenly stand taller and grow thinner when it comes time to ditch their shirts and hit the waves. But I digress.

We finished the weigh-in with a waist measurement. As she wrapped the tape around my midsection, her head level with my navel, intently studying the hash marks, I had a paralyzing thought: what if I had belly button lint? It seemed unlikely as I had showered only a short time earlier, but belly button lint is a mysterious phenomenon. No one knows were it comes from, and it seems to appear as if magic. On a man, the navel is nature's lint trap, and on many men the amount of miscellaneous material found therein could rival a Kenmore. If she saw anything she didn't let on, but she may have just been polite.

But know that as soon as she turned away I did a frantic check just to be sure.

It's hard enough to be suave and macho when you feel like a fatso, but it's even more so when there's a chance you have the remnants of an entire sweater nestled comfortably in your belly button. Such is life.