BRIEFLY SPEAKING

I'm a Nasty Pig.

My underwear says so.

I thought I was worse off wearing old Fruit of the Looms with holes all along the elastic waistband. Not intentional extra hole features. I don't think Fruit of the Loom makes that kind. But I'm betting Nasty Pig does.

My Nasty Pig briefs are tame. A simple Speedo-like cut boldly coloured in red and black. According to the picture on the package, I’m supposed to look cut when I wear them. Six-pack abs. That v-line that’s sort of hot but makes me think of starving people. And, best of all, absolutely no muffin-top overhang.

The picture lies. Maybe I’m too old. (Maybe clothing should have age guidelines. That’d put me in long johns and suspenders.) Maybe I just don’t have the right body. (Why can’t I just accept that?) Maybe I’m just a plain white Fruit of the Loom guy.

It’s crushing to discover that I’m a Nasty Pig fraud. If they wanted to protect the brand, they’d have spent less time on the pouch and more time on developing a sensor tag that sounded the alarm when the wrong guy—that would be me—tried to update his underwear drawer. They should have ejected me from the men’s undies specialty shop like Willie Wonka got rid of Augustus Gloop. No fancy (under)pants for you!

Perhaps that would have been for the better. I’m unsure what to do with my Nasty Pig purchase. My momma instilled in me the importance of always wearing clean underwear, but what if I get in a car accident, I become unconscious and I’m transported to hospital and the doctors discover my scandalous Nasty Pig label? Would they refuse to operate, even if my briefs are freshly washed with Tide Mountain Spring-scented detergent? (Maybe they’d dillydally as an Instagram-addicted scrub nurse posts a pic. It’s the end of the world as we know it and it has nothing to do with the big baby in the White House.)

I’m seriously limited in when I can slip on my Piggy apparel. Can’t wear them if I plan on driving, can’t wear ‘em if I go through an airport screening. Security officials would deem me a risk for…something. I’m sure there’s some language that applies on page 152 of the manual under the heading “General Unsavoriness”. (Updated versions will specifically reference imposters sporting sexy undies under a new heading, “Missing the (Marky) Mark”.)

I can’t wear my briefs to the gym either. No way I’m revealing them in the change room. The exposed belly is enough to show I’m not worthy. Why drive the point home any further? ‘Roid boys don’t take kindly to having protein shake decision-making (Extra shots of bee pollen and Creatine?) interrupted by a fit of laughter. ‘Roid boys must conserve facial muscle movements; everything must be channeled to the biceps.

I guess I can only be a Nasty Pig in the presence of my boyfriend. Really, that’s the way it should be. I’ll try not to take offense when he quickly turns the light switch to Off. It seems he has a special sensitivity to glare. Happens when I wear my ol’ Fruit of the Looms, too.

OUT OF LINE,...AT LAST

I remember it clearly. From grade to grade, it was the established routine. The teacher announced the group game for gym class, picked two students to be captains and then instructed the rest of us to line up against a wall.

It always felt like a firing squad proceeding.

One by one, we’d be pardoned from imminent execution. Steven M., Stephen P., Kevin, Cam, Tim G., Jeff, Becky.

When the first girl’s name got called, I’d start to sweat. We were nearing that shifting point, going from optimal draft picks to making the most of The Leftovers. Still, I knew I had plenty more time to lean on the wall. If I’d wanted to say a prayer, I could have mumbled it in English and in Latin. After learning the language with a handy Rosetta Stone kit.

But my prayer was simple. Even without words—in whatever language—the message was clear. Please don’t let me be last. This time, let it be Mary Novakovic. Yes, hail Mary. This was a brutal game of survival of the unfittest. She was my only hope. I never figured out the logic over which of us got the begrudging last nod. Hell, it wasn’t even a nod. When you ended up last, no one even called your name. You just knew which team you were on by default…and by the grumbles of your “teammates.” Really, you were the enemy.

And then, when it was game on, the playbook was simple. Whatever it takes, don’t let him get the ball. Ever.

I should have been happy when my grade nine P.E. teacher introduced an individual sport. No more letting the team down. But wrestling? Really?! That was worse. As we’d practice with a partner on mats spread around the gym, I’d always get the guy who wasn’t quick enough to find someone—anyone!—else. “Don’t you dare touch me, faggot.” He never attempted to whisper, but the teacher never seemed to hear. And then, after an awkward thirty minutes of being repeatedly pinned to the mat, the teacher would call us all to gather around a center mat for impromptu wrestling matches, viewed by all. Watch how fast the wimp surrenders. I was the unwilling participant in a comedy routine. Unbeknownst to me, I was a master at physical comedy, feebly flailing about for all but a few seconds. Snickers all around. If I had even a shred of masculinity in me, I was stripped of it then and there.

When my family moved to Texas at the start of tenth grade, I knew the misery would somehow increase. Football ruled. And I always found the ball too large for my hand. I didn’t like stretching my palm so much. I always felt like the football had a glaring design defect, but no one else seemed to notice. Somehow I stumbled upon the swim team and, though I was clearly among the worst, I never let people down as long as my coach kept me off the relays. The swim team became a place of refuge. It’s what helped me survive high school, at least until my two best friends on the team started a rumor in twelfth grade that I was gay. Mortified, I quit. They’d outed me before I’d figured things out for myself. That’s when I first thought of suicide.

I could go on and on with tortuous stories of how much my lack of athleticism shattered my self-esteem. It didn’t help that I was two years younger than my classmates, but I knew my coordination challenges were about more than age. I’d never catch up.

That’s why it astounds me to think of where I am, only a couple of months shy of fifty. I’m no jock, but I am athletic. Sort of. Now, when I swim up to one hundred minutes nonstop in lap pools, I consistently take the Fast lane. It stuns me that, as I go from city to city during my travels, I belong in the same lane. It’s not just that people in my community are freakishly slow swimmers with an affinity for the dog paddle. I am a swimmer.

I’m also a runner. All summer, as I ran in groups, I always finished first. I’d run the six miles at a comfortable pace, plenty sweaty but never out of breath and never sore (other than the pesky foot blisters that grew so large I named them. Ernie. Howard. Clarence was particularly menacing). I’d finish several minutes ahead of the next runner. Minutes! Ample time to cool off and take in the ocean views before dinner.

I no longer have to give myself pep talks before going to an out of town gym. Wimps have just as much of a right to use the gym. Even greater. You need it. Who cares if you have to share your weights with women. (Say, is that Mary Novakovic?!) I’ve made progress. I am not one of those steroid oddities with puffy muscles who sounds like he’s giving birth as he lets a monstrously weighted barbell crash to the floor. I don’t think I have the right demeanor to be a barbarian anyway. But I do find myself regularly lowering the weight pin when I hop on a machine after another guy. And I don’t gravitate to the low-lit corner of the weight room to complete a set of bicep curls. If I peek in the mirror, I can even see a bicep muscle finally adhering my plea: come out, come out, wherever you are. I fit because I’m fit.

I survived that prolonged humiliating boot camp known as Physical Education. Thankfully, most of us do. What amazes me is I found a way to escape the Wimpy Kid label. Without all those horrid group games and beyond the mocking scrutiny of classmates, I actually transformed my identity. The self-esteem issues have never been fully repaired, but I am athletic. I actually look forward to heading to the gym right after I post this. I won’t flee after ten minutes. Most likely, I’ll extend my workout. Tack on more ab crunches. They seem to finally make a difference.

It’s astonishing. Back in third grade when there was something about Mary and me, I’d have never imagined a day when I craved exercise, when I found it rewarding. I never thought I’d belong. Seems I faced the firing squad hundreds of times and lived to tell about it.

Remarkable, indeed.   

BODY TALK

If you’ve got a gut, enjoy it. Appreciate all the food that got you there. You may cringe when you look in the mirror or maybe you don’t. Maybe you are perfectly comfortable with the "imperfection." Bravo! If you long for a better body, one like those buff “avi is me” pics on Twitter, know that the price can be too high for a slimmer you.

I have never before posted a shirtless photo of myself. Not my thing. Wouldn’t even send it privately to a boyfriend. My body and I have a longstanding hate-hate relationship. Still, I included this photo of me from this week because, while I can savagely pick it apart, this is as good as it gets. Maybe if I document it, I can stop the madness. Been there, done that, movin’ on. Objectively, I know it’s not bad for forty-nine. I am acutely familiar with the natural belly inflation that occurs at this stage. I’ve fought it off, but it’s nothing to be proud about.

I’ve written about eating disorders before. (If you're so inclined, you might want to read this or this.) I have struggled with food and weight issues for most of my life—at least since I was eleven or twelve. Male or female, there is pressure to look perfect. I knew that in the ‘70s as a kid who sipped Tab while friends guzzled root beer to show off their belching prowess. They had their priorities right.

Women talk about the constant media exaltation of The Body Perfect. While they can’t fully ignore the pressure, they can sit together over skim lattés and talk about it. Men, not so much. Most guys would just laugh it off. What’s your problem, man? Have another beer. This leaves guys who are, for whatever reason, more susceptible to this body pressure to internalize their feelings of inadequacy.

I’d be envious of these other guys—if I had any fondness for beer. (I say I don’t like the taste. Subconsciously, I probably formed a strong resistance to the beverage because it spawned the term beer belly.) Pizza, ice cream, cheesecake, these are indulgence possibilities. I talk about them a lot. But it’s rare to catch me ingesting anything beyond nonfat cottage cheese, Melba toast and plain fruits and vegetables. I have maintained a strict diet for decades, typically with the same dull staples.

The only blip was a couple of years when my ex and I were together. I indulged and the relationship went sour. The sex stopped. He became terse, then abusive. Logically, I can say that the ten extra pounds around my waist—and that’s as extreme as it ever got—had nothing to do with the demise of a doomed relationship. But my nagging interior/inferior voice says, “Porking out couldn’t have helped.”

Oh, what a piece of work I am.

Things become most dire whenever I hit a time in life where things are out of control. I drastically reduce, I deprive and the weight drops. Fortunately, the last severe bout was about twenty years ago when I first moved to Vancouver, was underemployed and questioned whether the spontaneous move had been an act of pure stupidity. Friends intervened and insisted I see a doctor. He turned out to be clueless about eating disorders in men--no diagnosis, no resources or support--but somehow my friends shook me up enough to get me to change course...a little bit. I returned to never-ending dieting and wisely didn’t talk about calories or fat.

Last fall, as feelings of isolation escalated, I became especially critical of what I perceived as my bloating gut. Despite the regular workouts and the dieting, the Pillsbury Doughboy always greeted me in the mirror. Next up: Little Buddha. “This is 50,” I told myself. Single, fat, lonely, hopeless.

When my dog, Hoover, died in April, I went into full deprivation mode. The grief was so intense and the guilt so great that food deprivation constituted both control and punishment. Whenever the grief lapsed, a general apathy stepped in. Why bother? With food or anything.

It took five days before I acknowledged I needed to be admitted to hospital, for severe depression, not for an eating disorder. In the short term, it was the right thing, but I am still dealing with the aftermath. Nobody raves about hospital food. Especially not vegan hospital food. Plain bread, vegetable broth, half a canned pear. It made deprivation even easier. In the psych ward, everything was highly scheduled—all controlled by someone other than myself. Meals at 8, 12 and 5. Snacks at 2 and 8. I’m sure the intent is to help stabilize some people, but for me, it only intensified my desperation to exert control over the only thing I could: my body.

My food restriction does not get too drastic when I can exercise. I am fanatical about it. I over-exercise. I exercise when injured. In the hospital, confined to my ward, there was no jogging, no swimming, no cycling, no weightlifting. There was a Stairmaster that I would ride in my flimsy hospital bottoms and gown, but I worried too much about body odor. (We weren’t given soap for the showers; only tiny gel packets that failed to do much of anything.)

No one monitored my intake at meals. The food trays went largely untouched. I hoarded soda crackers, instant decaf coffee packets and apples from snack time. When I felt dizzy, I’d slowly chew a Saltine or lie down and try (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

I lost twelve pounds in the first six days. They didn’t bother to weigh me after that. More troubling was where the loss occurred. In the mirror, my body was unrecognizable. After all those years of building muscle mass, all was lost.

 

Biceps gone. Pecs gone. Quads gone. Welcome to a new kind of hideous.

The transformation only made me care even less about living.

In the three months since being released, I’ve increased the intensity of my workouts. I’ve lost a few more pounds but I’ve regained strength. I don’t have near the bulk from before, especially in the chest. My tight t-shirts are now roomy. Still, my body gets noticed. Gay guys are openly complimentary. It’s foreign territory.

But I am an example of how unrealistic body images are in our society. Yes, I am forty-nine and I appear fit. But my food intake continues to be tightly controlled even more so than before I entered hospital. No more breakfasts. I’ve cut lunches in half, dinners by a third. I look healthy. It’s an utter deception.

IT'S A GUY THING TOO

There is truth at the base of every overused expression. Take misery loves company. I don’t want other people to suffer whatever pains me; still, there is something perversely comforting in knowing I am not alone.

Last summer, I posted a blog entry about my struggles with body image and bouts of anorexia. So often I have felt there is no one to talk to about the life-long struggle. Media reports largely portray eating disorders as a girl thing. So what the hell is wrong with me? Suck it up, be a man and eat a steak. (As an aside, I hear some gimmicky Caveman Diet is all the rage now. Me disgusted.)

It felt affirming to spot this headline in the Vancouver Sun today: “Eating disorders in men more common than many believe.” For a gay guy long regarded as effeminate and having a girly disorder, I felt a little less freakish. The article would have done wonders had it been published thirty years ago. Another overused expression comes to mind: better late than never.

It’s a lean, low-calorie article, “lite” on analysis, but the main facts are potent. “[S]urprisingly large numbers of men” experience eating disorders. (Yes, we’re still surprised men battle bulimia and anorexia.) One-third of anorexia nervosa and one-fourth of bulimia cases involve males. Those stats are significantly higher than the five percent I’d previously read. Unfortunately, due to the continuing view that eating disorders are a female concern, men are less inclined to seek treatment or to talk about their experiences. The media needs to step up, helping males understand that eating disorders are a guy thing, too. Physicians need to increase their own awareness the incidence of eating disorders among boys and men. Seventeen years ago when I went to my family doctor to get help during a recurrence of anorexia, he didn’t know where to refer me; in fact, he did nothing but tell me to eat. I left his office feeling shocked and even more alone.

The article confirmed things I’d suspected about my own issues with an eating disorder. First, it stated that an eating disorder “can be triggered by a stressful life event, such as undiagnosed other psychiatric conditions, sexual or physical abuse, trouble in school [or] job loss.” Indeed, my two lowest points in battling anorexia came first when I took on too big a load in university and second when I quit my law career and moved to British Columbia, taking on part-time work that did not pay the bills.

While the article acknowledged that some males develop eating disorders after experiencing bullying or teasing, it also affirmed my own reasoning. “An eating disorder can become a coping mechanism, a desperate grasp for control at a time when it feels as if their lives are unravelling.” Anorexia has been a way of asserting control internally at times when I felt I had no control over external situations.

By understanding the triggers that aggravate anorexia, I’ve been able to avoid another downward spiral. Once I recognize pressures that make me particularly vulnerable, I open up to friends, stripping away the secretive nature of anorexia. When eyes are watching, it becomes harder to starve myself.

It is my hope that this is the first of many articles to take away the stigma associated with male eating disorders. It is enough of a burden to battle anorexia or bulimia. Guys shouldn’t have to feel they are alone.