Italian

I want to be like the old Italian men who meander the path along the canal, shirtless on their bikes, slowly and with purpose. Their tans are etched into their bodies; some have white lines where their shorts meet the skin, the contrast looks natural. Their skin stretches smoothly over their wiry frames, white hair cut clean and out of the way, there is only a tiny roll of flesh on the stomach where it bends forward toward the handlebars... their contentment is contagious, but their disdain for average is obvious. They own this place.