A CASE OF THE BICEP BLUES?

I just finished reading an enjoyable memoir, Lust & Wonder, by acclaimed author Augusten Burroughs (perhaps best known for Running with Scissors). It’s well worth reading, with great humor and insight into gay relationships. The middle section, in particular, represents an author who is really clicking.

Strangely, two sentences on page 82 nearly made me throw the book against a wall and then shut if for good. Burroughs has a crush on a man and gets up the nerve to ask the guy if he’s seeing anybody. Burroughs writes:

I was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans. I’d been to the gym

that morning, so my arms were large.

I still want to scream as I type that. I’m guessing Burroughs was about thirty-five at the time and yet that chunk of writing comes off as being the thinking of an emotionally stunted eighteen year old.

Initially, I check myself. Is this jealously? God knows, I’ve never had large arms. A morning gym workout has never made a lick of difference. Same with ten mornings in a row. (Yes, I’ve tried.) And the only thing tight shirts show off is a belly overhang. I could never write that passage, unless it appeared in a work-in-progress novel about, yes, an emotionally stunted eighteen year old.

There is the expression, If you’ve got it, flaunt it, but that always makes me think of women with boob jobs wearing low-cut dresses and open-buttoned blouses. My eyes get pulled in by some gravitational force and I all-too-obviously look away, fretting that I’ve been caught luridly ogling. I’ve got my defense at the ready—“I’m gay!”—but I’ve never had to go there. (Yep. They probably know. I worry way too much.)

I’ve reread the passage several times, and I don’t think Burroughs means to be funny or sad here. It’s just stated as fact. I looked muscular in my tight shirt. I wonder if his editor challenged Burroughs—not on the size of his arms, but on wisdom of including this throwaway comment. It comes off as incredibly shallow. Here, I suppose I’m grateful that I’ve lived a boring life because I could never be a memoirist. I’m fine with being self-deprecating, but I can’t do shallow. I suppose I have my fair share of shallow thoughts but I can’t recall any. Thankfully, they vaporize with due speed. As they should.

I was wearing a tight T-shirt and jeans. I’d been to the gym

that morning, so my arms were large.

There it is again. I can’t shake it. I realize I’ve been bothered by this thinking for so long. I see similar thought bubbles over guys’ heads every single time I go to the gym. If anything, it’s more rampant than ever. They don’t just peek in the mirror anymore. Now it’s full stare and linger as they check themselves out. How much bigger did my arms get after that set? What about my quads?

Even if I stay away from the gym, it’s all over Twitter. Guys post their daily shirtless shots from the gym locker room and their egos are reinforced by hundreds of “Likes”. And then there’s the weightlifting videos. Last week, a buff guy approached a schmo (like me) to get him to record his push-up stuntwork on his phone. It was an intense thirty-second routine but I wondered why it really needed to be preserved in video form. Maybe he’d post it to a dating site. Maybe he’d save it until he was eighty, something to show the grandkids. Or maybe he’d just watch it himself. Over and over. As I worked out this weekend, a guy had his girlfriend videoing him and I was inconveniently in the background. I had to glare pointedly so she’d change the angle, the best shot compromised due to “in the way” guy.

I try to see the big-arm point of view. Maybe greater confidence comes with bulging biceps. It’s true that last summer I had a date with a big-bicepped guy and he showed up in a flaunt-worthy tank top. It’s also true that I was terribly distracted, the whole conversation muddled as I kept telling myself to stay at eye level.

Perhaps I even strive to do the same thing when I show up in a green shirt, hoping it helps to highlight the green in my eyes. No muscles to speak of but, hey, I’ve got eyes.

Hell, maybe despite all the great prose in Burroughs’ Lust & Wonder, the one line I wish I could write is, “I’d been to the gym that morning, so my arms were large.” God, I hope not. If I ever get to go to an Augusten Burroughs author talk and/or book signing, I sure hope I don’t immediately look to see whether he just might have gone to the gym that morning. But then he put it out there, didn’t he?

WHAT NOT TO WEAR—GYM EDITION

Okay, first off, full disclosure. I do not wear tank tops. I simply cannot carry off the look.

It goes back to when I was twenty, jogging along a less traveled road in a Dallas suburb on a Saturday afternoon. I’d just bought a teal Calvin Klein tank top as part of my new running gear. It was a daring purchase. At the time, I was completely devoid of biceps. The only noticeable bump between shoulder and wrist was a dry, boney elbow. But I was pie-eyed optimistic. My arms would grow into it, I told myself.

Five minutes into the run, a car passed, windows down. I don’t recall the exact message the passengers yelled but, without a doubt, they were mocking me.

It could have been for a number of reasons—my awkward stride, my acne-riddled face, my chicken legs—but I surmised it was a tank top taunt. Confirmation that I had no business wearing the shirt. I cut short my jog and retreated for home. The tank top remained at the bottom of a drawer until I readied for my next move when I dropped it off at a clothing donation bin. Let a homeless guy rock it in his Calvins.

That incident has led to bicep envy. Over the years, I’ve watched men successfully carry off the tank top look, doing fewer reps with lighter weights. While I’ve made gains, I still have reluctant biceps.

My recent month long stay in West Hollywood immersed me in an all tank top gym. It was the unwritten dress code. On each visit, I was one of the half dozen sad-sacks that donned a regular t-shirt, mine hanging over my body like a poncho. I told myself I was being non-conformist, a muscle tease, a rebel. Not that anyone noticed. Not with all those bulging biceps.

My first weekend workout spawned culture/clothing shock. At my small town gym, no guy would ever lift weights in a lilac or peach tank top, but I spotted both. I’ll admit to spending the rest of the month on the lookout for a lilac tank in clothing stores. If I ever dared trying the tank again, why not do it in a festive color and wash it repeatedly with Febreze-scented Tide? Why not sniff the shoulder strap for a refreshing whiff to fend off the stench of man sweat?

Aside from the range of color, the design of the tanks caught my eye. These were not standard tanks. These were thong tanks, a dire scarcity of fabric. The straps dipped low, fully revealing men’s pecs. I don’t think a man’s nipples should be exposed in a shirt any more than a woman’s should. If you’ve got the body and you must flaunt it, just rip your shirt off and sun yourself as soon as you exit the gym. Go ahead, cause a traffic accident. Isn’t that the ultimate ego boost?

The sides were also fabric free, coming together only at the waistline. Between front and side profiles, nothing was left to the imagination. Call it the peek-a-boo shirtless look.

Admittedly, most of the men had bodies worth showing off, but it seemed too much. The twenty-somethings could get away with it, but it smelled of desperation for guys in their thirties, forties and fifties. Why didn’t someone put an expiration date on the thong tank label? Along with WARNING: Entire shirt may get lost in dryer lint basket, add Best before 30.   

It reminds me of female pop stars. In their twenties, Lady Gaga, Rihanna and Miley Cyrus try to push the envelope, exposing as much flesh as possible, making censors earn their pay. But when Madonna continues to flash audiences in her fifties, it seems a little tired, doesn’t it? She needn’t be wearing turtlenecks, but age is supposed to bring a modicum of restraint.

Just because you can wear a thong tank doesn’t mean you should. Still, these men were better attired than the frizzy haired man in the camouflage FLOSS OR DIE t-shirt. And I probably looked more ridiculous in my poncho tee, but as the car hecklers of yesteryear made clear, I am not the workout fashion god. I’d just like to think an athletic forty-five-year-old man would look so much sexier in a form fitting t-shirt that catches one’s eye without giving it all away.

What do you think? Am I too conservative/modest to be gay? Am I still scarred from an ancient tank top misfire? Has rural life nuked my appreciation of a little exhibitionism? I cling to the hope I still have some fashion sense.