I DON'T LOOK LIKE AN ABERCROMBIE MODEL, AND THAT'S NOT OK.

FUCK YOU, ABERCROMBIE, FOR MAKING ME FEEL INADEQUATE.

(HYPERACTIVE DOES MUAY THAI)

I'm tired of seeing Abercrombie abs on Facebook and Instagram. I'm sick of the six-pack, especially since they're not mine.

When Hollister was just about to open in Festival Walk some time ago, I was accosted on the street by a goodlooking trio of Americans to do a "casting." I only learned after the fact that a "casting" meant nothing more than a job interview for sales staff. Now, Hollister would would prolly holler at me to get the fuck out. No 6-pack, no chance.

In all honesty, I am not turned on by a six-pack. I like a beautiful face, eyes that focus laser-like into my soul, a seductive mouth that spreads wide open into a heartmelting smile, and a gorgeous ass. But there's no stopping me from wanting a six-pack for myself, especially since any boy who should be so lucky as to have the aformentioned perfect face, eyes, lips, ass etc. must want nothing more from a prospective partner than the aforementioned six-pack.

Since failing to recover my storied six-pack makes me sick, I refused to talk about the opening of the Abercrombie & Fitch flagship. I refused to attend any of the events. I refused to take my iPhone out for a snapshot whenever the brain dead (it's the envious monster speaking) models would come out for an appearance. I just refuse to acknowledge Abercrombie, in the same way I pretty much refuse to admit that trading my muscly, twinky figure for a rewarding desk job hurt my ego a bit. In fact, it hurt my ego a whole lot.

When I was 23, I was always frustrated that nobody cared to see my brain - just my pecs. Now that I'm in my 30s, I don't even display my saggy pecs - just my brain. Or what's left of it after the sustained alcohol abuse that seems to characterize our Hyperactive Hong Kong lives.

So yesterday, I decided to beef up my efforts to kick my monopack into submission. I may not be young any more, but I'm not that old. I'm only in my 30s. As my buff colleague, Oliver (who is in his early 20s and repels fat like water repels oil), "You're only 30; you should be in the best shape of your life."

Right.

So on a day when I'm supposed to rest and do nothing except tuck into the latest Jeffrey Archer paperback, I hauled my Hyperactive ass down to Epic MMA to join the readers of HK Magazine and editor Sarah Fung for 1.5 hours of Cross Fitness, Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Capoeira.

"I feel so good," I told Chris afterwards.

"You're all aglow," Chris generously affirmed.

"I feel beautiful, like a Brazilian."

Chris laughed and gave me three deliciously light pecks on the lips.

"OK," I thought, "this is too much sexiness." Chris was in the thick of writing a policy paper on land allocation in Vietnam. The last thing he needed was distraction.

"Off to shower," I announced, happily diving into my newly acquired stash of scrumptious products from The Body Shop.

Who the fuck needs Abercrombie?

BRAZILIAN JIU JITSU

HYPERACTIVE IS A CAPOEIRISTA.

HAVEN'T GOT A BLACK BELT, SO WILL A BLACK SHIRT DO?