“My iPod keeps shorting out on me,” I told the cheery Apple store door greeter. The buzzing Apple store in the Southdale Mall was hemorrhaging hipsters.

“Let me set you up with an appointment to visit our Genius Bar,” he replied. Apple store guy had strategically tousled hair and looked like he might play bass guitar in an indie band called “King Biscuit.” As I waited for my name to be called, my wife and I navigated through the bustling store to the iPod display. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny glare of one of the brand new wafer thin laptops: I looked like an Alaskan bush pilot. A stupid winter stocking cap rested on top of my bird’s nest of unruly hair. A huge down jacket slacked off my hunched shoulders. My exasperated wife looked over at me and solemnly shook her head. I had no business being in the ultra chic store.

A different Apple salesman approached us and gave us enough technological guidance to start a record label, take over a small Latin American country, and build a robot that performed tonsillectomies. My name was finally called and we approached the Genius Bar.
“My iPod keeps shorting out on me,” I told the Genius. He took my iPod and plugged it in to his computer. “It goes off while I’m working out.”

The Genius looked befuddled. “Do you sweat a lot?” he asked me.

“Ugh,” Sarah moaned. My wife put a hand over her face in sheer embarrassment. My disgusting swarthiness was about to become public knowledge and she wanted no part of it. Sarah casually stepped backwards into the pulsing crowd. She was mercifully swallowed up by the crush of consumerism. I wanted to run as well because I am a total sweat hog. I hit puberty like “Teen Wolf.” And now my rank bodily excretion was destroying one of the modern world’s greatest inventions. Yuck.

I looked around the store for a second to just make sure I wasn’t being filmed for some hidden camera prankster show called “Nerds Behaving Badly.”  Nope. The Genius really wanted to know my perspiration rate.

“Yeah. I sweat a lot,” I said. “But it’s not like I clip the iPod to my arm pit hair. I clip it to the waistband of my shorts. You know, right below my belly button.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Apparently, iPods aren’t supposed to be buried in a tuft of sweaty belly hair. My confession hung in the air like a fart.

“iPods can short if exposed to a great deal of sweat,” the Genius said. “Just try to keep the iPod dry.” 
He unwrapped a new blue iPod and cheerfully handed it to me. I killed the iPod with my belly sweat. Then the Genius walked back to the Genius Bar to call out the next name. My wife was already running for the exit.