As you look at all the shoes, you consider what Colby said earlier about surprise changes. A smile comes to your face.
"Guys, I have an idea."
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After gathering some clothes that proplerly fit your forms without looking ridiculous in public, the three of your go to the local bowling alley. Your idea is simple. Go to the bowling alley, get some loaner shoes from the counter, and use the magic socks to change into the last people who wore them while playing a round.
"Won't somebody notice us?" George had asked, dressing in some of his father's clothes.
You shrug. "How often do you look at the other people bowling? As long as we keep pretty quiet I think we'll be fine."
George looks down at the flannel shirt he wore, drawn taught across his bulk. "What if we outgrow our clothes?"
You playfully bap him in the gut, which jiggles a bit. "I don't think that'll be a problem for you, George. But I asked Colby to bring some sweat suits just in case."
Colby was being quieter than usual. He'd found some of his brother's clothes that fit him, even if they were made for a man with wider proportions. His brother wasn't skinny, thought he had nothing on George's dad.
"You alright, Colby?" you ask.
He nods curtly. "Yes, sir. I'm fine."
"You're awfully quiet."
"I just don't have much to say, I guess."
Since none of you actually have driver's licences yet, you all walk to the bowling alley. You pay for a lane and rent some shoes, asking for sizes that match your friends' current forms. You're sure to ask for the farthest lane from everything else. The bored-looking kid manning the counter hands you the shoes and opens up the lane. The three of you take your seats and begin putting on your bowling shoes. You hand George the socks, first, and then step up to the lane with your ball. You thought it best to bowl while you waited for the others to change, to avoid looking suspicious.
You wind up and, with a flick of the wrist, the ball goes rolling smoothly down the lane, knocking over most of the pins. When your ball comes back you repeat the motions, earning yourself a spare.
You clench your arm in a fist pump. "Yessss!"
George laughs. "I thought you hated bowling!"
You give him a confused glance. "What do you mean? I like it just fine."
He shakes his head, chuckling. "Oh, no. Remember David's birthday party in 5th grade? We had it here. You were awful at it. You kept complaining about how boring it was." He laughs some more. "You've hated it ever since. Your dad was there, too. He was great! Hey, maybe you got his bowling skills with his body, eh?"
You stand there for a moment, trying to make sense of what he said. Then you remember again that the body you are in isn't yours, but your father's. You keep forgetting that. It was disconcerting. You try to remember what it was like being in your old body, but have trouble recalling the sensations of being a teenager.
Colby finishes marking down your score, then goes up to take his turn. He sends the ball down the lane, the satisfying clattering of pins declaring a strike. He returns to mark his score, a subtle smirk on his face. You glance over at George as he stands to take his turn and notice his changes are well under way. His beard and visible arm hair have darkened in color considerably, going from brown-red to an almost black. His frame seems to have also diminished somewhat, not only in width, but, by judging the bunching of his pants at his ankles, his height. As he selects his ball, you can see his beard quickly shortening, becoming close cropped and finely trimmed. It no longer ides high on his cheeks, but neatly follows the line of his jaw, which becomes well defined and square. The mass of hair poking out from every hole in his shirt lessens in density, becoming finely controlled and well groomed. The thin parts of his hair begin filling in, the bald spot on the back of his head suddenly being full of thick, black, well controlled hair.
Thrown off by the shift in his mass, George's first short goes wild, the ball almost immediately flying into the gutter.
"Woops! Heh. That went a bit off course." He chuckles.
When he turns back around, you can see his face has almost completely changed. The roundness has been replaced by angles and edges, the wild hair more controlled. His receded hairline has pulled back forward, though not quite all the way. Still, his hair has become thick and black, his wild mane now a styled coiffure. Much of the flab on his body is gone. Instead, it has been replaced by muscle, a lot of muscle. His toned pecs push out from under his shirt, now dominating his torso, taking the attention away from his once prodigious belly. Speaking of which, the round form is still there, though it is quickly fading. His muscular arms strain at the sleeves of the flannel shirt, which is beginning to look out of place on his increasingly manicured body.
George retrieves his ball from the ball return and positions himself again, the muscles in his back visible through his shirt. He focuses for a moment, before sending the ball down the lane once again. It glides down the lane, keeping to the center before veering off to the side at the last moment. It clips a single pin, which falls over with a hollow clatter, leaving the other's untouched. Colby records his score.
George chuckles again, this time much quieter, the expression sounding force. "That didn't go as planned. Heh." The expression on his new face reads to you as "annoyed." Then his pants fall down.
You can't help but laugh out loud. His waistline had shrank enough to no longer support his pants. George quickly pulls them up, his face red, not only from embarrassment, but also form anger. "Stupid... bowling..."
Colby hands George a belt from has bag. George cinches it tight. The contrast between his old and new bodies was striking. His round, flabby form had changed to a well muscled, well manicured one. Though, you could see some softness to his form, and perhaps a subtle roundness to his midsection. He looked younger, as well. Though, the faint lines around his eyes and the smattering of grey on the sides of his head suggested someone of about your age of 40.
"Hey, George." You motion to your friend. "You alright?"
"Yeah, fine. Sorry. I don't know why I lost my temper like that. Weird."
"Well, at least you're in pretty good shape, now."
He looks down at his new form and smirks. "Yeah. Yeah I sure am looking pretty good."