CLAY AIKEN: BUFF ENOUGH? By Amy Lee
The title is giving my message away, isn’t it? Ever since reading In Touch’s latest “exclusive” scoop on Clay’s new dedication to pumping up his lithe frame by working with a personal trainer “every other day”, this little essay has been working itself in my mind.
A ‘buff’ Clay?
Sorry, I just don’t buy it. I mean, for one thing, some things are just too much for this mature woman’s psyche (and other facets of her being) to grasp and still carry on the mundane chores of daily life on this planet. I just saw Clay deliver many of us to Hades in hand basket as he sang ‘O Holy Night’ in Baltimore. ‘Nuff said.
Another reason I have my doubts about this newsflash---besides the questionable integrity of its source, of course---is that I question this being a choice of Mr. Aiken’s in any circumstance. In all his “spare” time, I find it pretty far fetched that he would prefer lifting weights to sleeping or talking or…well, just about any other endeavor. Of course, since I know him so well personally, I am so very sure of this.
But let’s put all this conjecture aside, shall we? Let’s assume that it’s true. Let’s assume that In Touch magazine suddenly became a reliable source of news, and let’s just accept that Clay has decided to turn his naturally lean and lovely body into a sculpted masterpiece through hours of toil and sweat and pain. Let’s picture Clay rushing to the gym after doing three or four evening concerts in a row, spending those days rehearsing with a new orchestra and groups of children each day, calling in to radio interviews from his doctor’s office and then, of course, spending some time in front of a mirror practicing new ways to kill us all with his eyes and mouth and hands.
Here’s the way it would play out:
Clay finishes a concert and spends the first thirty minutes or so after the curtains close shaking hands, hugging and talking to all the kids who sang on stage with him and are in awe of him. He thanks the orchestra members and his crew and does a meet and greet. He goes to his bus, stopping to wave and shake hands with the fans who have been waiting in freezing weather for a couple of hours just to see a glimpse of him in his jimmies, hoodie and Burberry bucket hat. He eats a midnight dinner and falls asleep at some ungodly wee hour and sleeps until it’s time to meet the new orchestra and rehearse with them. He greets all the kiddies and signs autographs and tries not to notice their mothers drooling. During a break in rehearsals and blocking, he does a radio interview. He has two hours before curtain.
Here’s where it gets a little hairy for me.
He has two hours to breathe before the show must go on. So what does he decide to do with these precious minutes? No contest. He heads to the bus that has been especially pimped out as a traveling gym and hits the weights. Yep, first he does ten miles on the treadmill for cardio since his lung capacity is so shamelessly lacking. Not to mention how essential this running to nowhere is as a way to burn those extra, unneeded calories from his half gallon of peach ice cream daily. Can’t let that fat accumulate, now can he? The actual weight lifting is of utmost importance as well since his wardrobe is so very revealing. He could never get away with a lack of muscular definition in the form fitting clothes he insists on virtually painting on his body. What kind of role model would he be if he spent all that time working hard on building his body and then didn’t show it off at every possible opportunity? Talk about a waste of time!
After reaching deep inside for just “ten more” one-armed push ups, he quickly showers, grabs a protein shake and a shot of wheatgrass and then dresses for his concert. He, of course, nails each tune, masters each adlib and scripted quip and finalizes the moral demise of every woman in the audience…as is his custom. Then?
Well, then he just does it all over again.
This scenario is SO very believable, isn’t it?
(Hopefully, Clay is reading this and getting a chuckle as he lounges in pajama bottoms and tee shirt munching on peanut butter cookies and milk and watching recorded episodes of The West Wing between concerts while petting Raleigh and hanging out with Nick or…someone else.)
Now that we can create a scenario that plays out the In Touch way, let’s write the “story behind the story”. Why? Why should Clay Aiken, superstar, want to pump iron and reshape his body? Or more accurately, why would the press get a charge out of suggesting that he would or should?
In my unsolicited opinion, creating an image of Clay sweating and grunting under pounds of lifeless metal is their reluctant nod to his masculinity, which is something they’ve been hesitant to do for most of the time he’s been a public figure. Shoot, the reporters are probably thinking they’re doing the kid a favor! I mean, everyone knows that women go for the muscles, right? We drool over a buff bod and lose control when we watch a man make his pecs twitch and jump. We absolutely moan out loud when we see a practiced pose of biceps and a six pack stomach undulate on command. That’s what really revs our engines. And let’s face it. Who better than men to know what turns women on, right?
This Clay Aiken guy….He’s been lucky so far getting all that attention from women. They obviously want to mother him, feed him fattening food and make sure he’s eating his vegetables. He has a decent enough voice, but it can’t be just his voice that causes those records to fly off display shelves and sells out all those concerts. It can’t just be the trademark spiky hair and green eyes, disarming smile and quick wit that make people want to tune in to any television show where he makes a five-second appearance. Certainly, his long, lanky frame and his clown feet can’t be riveting female eyes to him. The guy looks about as strong as my mother, for crying out loud!
But wait. Isn’t he an advocate for children with disabilities? Doesn’t he spend time working for inclusion of these kids? Haven’t I seen him at benefits to raise money for grants and special programs that would improve other people’s lives? Wasn’t that Clay Aiken in Washington visiting congressmen’s offices in between tour dates, lending his articulate words to encourage life-changing legislation for those who have no voice?
And I could swear I heard somewhere that UNICEF wanted him to represent their efforts toward educational opportunities for all children worldwide. Oh, and McDonalds has asked him to work with them, too, with their many charitable ventures. I think someone told me, as well, that he is an official spokesman for other national education organizations, and I’m pretty sure he sang for free in a few places to call attention to one worthy cause or another.
Never mind those things, though. You don’t need muscles to do those things. That treadmill might be good for your physical heart, but it doesn’t add one pound of difference to what’s inside it.
So here’s what I say about Clay Aiken getting buff. Clay, the only reason I can imagine I would ever suggest that you spend any free time you might find, working out with weights and a personal trainer is so that you can remain healthy and able to carry the superhero loads you volunteer to haul around with you in your life.
Your broad shoulders are stronger than their lean structure would suggest to the superficial eye of so many observers, but they’ve proven their substance again and again.
Your superhuman lungs might give out during those glory notes when you’re fighting the all-too-human common cold, but your voice never falters when you’re appearing at charity functions and advocating for inclusion of those who can’t fight for themselves.
You might not be able to bench press heavy weights above your head, but your gentle, strong hands lift so many hearts when they hug a child, or touch other hands briefly through a fence after a concert, or lie gently on your chest in thanks after a standing ovation from us who love you and thank YOU for what you bring to us.
You might not win a contest in the weight room, but the fire and sheer power of the love and your love of life in your eyes conquer all detractors who have the courage to confront you in person.
Someone else might be fleeter and more graceful in a race, but anyone who knows you or knows of you can’t help but feel that in the marathon, you will prevail.
The grunts and groans bursting out of thick, fireplug-sized necks as their owners strain to move a barbell have nothing on the ability of your unearthly voice to move everyone it reaches to places too sweet—too painfully joyful to describe.
And no athlete in the most perfect physical condition, with the eye-popping musculature that we women are supposed to want in a man, could approach the beautiful contours and capacity of your heart.
Clay Aiken…buff enough?
Oh, yeah.
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Write to Amy at arl4cha@hotmail.com
Copyright 2004 by Amy Lee. Printed with the permission of the writer.
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