SHEDDING THE "DAD BOD"

Every so often a new term or phrase pops up on the internet and it becomes a thing. “Okay boomer.” “Me too.” The name Karen. As is typical with all-things-viral, the original zing of the expression fades and gets warped as more people try to fit it into their own conversations to the point where the meaning is lost, banged up or fused into something utterly different from its original state. That’s what happens when something that deserves fifteen seconds of fame lingers for years.

It’s why I’m pleading for the “dad bod” squad to abandon the term. Move on. Let a man’s natural aging process just be, no comment necessary.

Yes, I’m a man of that certain age and I’m on constant belly watch. I can blame slower metabolism, too much Netflix and both Ben and Jerry. Whatever the contributing causes, my middle section is harder to manage.

This comes as no surprise. I spent decades bracing for it. I feared a future that brought with it the likelihood of an expanding midriff. (Full disclosure: much of this obsessive, unreasonable fear has been fueled by an eating disorder which first started to form when I was ten.) My horrific image of the ominous “beer belly” came from my teen years in Texas as various forty-something men in the neighborhood mowed lawns shirtless in the sweltering heat. I was both aghast and amazed. How could they flaunt a flaw? I told myself I would never “let myself go” like that. How fortuitous that I hated the taste of beer. Surely a wine cooler wouldn’t come with such heavy repercussions.

I’ve known many men who pat their protruding tummies, laugh and acknowledge their “Buddha belly” with an air of resignation...fondness even. When a guy does this, I study his face a few seconds, waiting for it to crack, certain that there’s pain behind this front of self-acceptance. I see nothing. Maybe they never internalized wisecracks about “baby fat” during the tween years. Maybe they didn’t have to stand alone in gay bars, desperate to be noticed by men who couldn’t take their eyes off ab-fab go-go boys, stripped down to neon thongs, dancing without rhythm on podiums. Maybe they just got over it. These men mystify me. They’re as unrelatable as those go-go boys.

I remind myself constantly that a little extra weight around the middle is normal as guys look back over their shoulder at their twenties. For many, a little extra time on the treadmill and waving off that second slice of cherry pie can stave off the weight gain into the thirties, maybe even the early forties. There’s a point though when it’s time to wave the white flag. Alas, for me, it’s still a never surrender mindset.

When I starting seeing and hearing references to the “dad bod,” I was alarmed. It’s a triggering term for me. Please let this pass. Move along, people. Nothing to see here.

I take some solace in knowing that I wasn’t the only one who cringed. In the British GQ article, “We’re calling bullshit on the ‘dad bod,’” they asked, “As your mind palace attempted to come to grips with the words ‘dad’ and ‘bod’ becoming adjacent, did you feel comforted or a creeping dread?”

Apparently, “dad bod” began as a nod to body positivity. It was popularized by a 2015 article called “Why Girls Love the Dad Bod.” written by university student Mackenzie Pearson, a seeming nod to frat boys instead of middle-agers. “The dad bod says, ‘I go to the gym occasionally, but I also drink heavily on the weekends and enjoy eating eight slices of pizza at a time.’ It's not an overweight guy, but it isn't one with washboard abs, either.” Pearson elaborates: “While we all love a sculpted guy, there is just something about the dad bod that makes boys seem more human, natural, and attractive.” She closes with, “[G]irls everywhere are going nuts over this body type on males. We like it. We love it. We want some more of it. So here's to you dad bods, keep it up.”

Okay then. Thank you, Mackenzie. From her perspective, at least, a slight man pouch isn’t a bad thing. Heck, it’s a nice bonus, so to speak. Very glass half full of her.

The problem is that others lifted the term and it spread over the internet, a place where glass half full folks are drowned out by full-on haters. “Dad bod” came to be a “hip” reference for body shaming beach-bound male celebrities with unflattering pics snapped by the paparazzi. There was Leonardo DiCaprio, looking a bit paunch,...dad bod. This summer, when Zac Efron stepped into a hot tub on the premiere of his Netflix series “Down to Earth,” he trended on Twitter. The thirty-three-year-old was beefier and hairier than his High School Musical days. Some people loved it; others mocked it. “Oh, my god! Zac Efron has a dad bod!”

I stared hard at the photo people freeze-framed from the show. Dad bod?! What were people talking about? No six pack, sure, but so what? The guy was fit. Most men would be thrilled to have his body.

The body shaming continued. Some actor named Jason Momoa who had to get a ripped body to play Aquaman supposedly now had a dad bod. (Um, no.)

A week ago, I came across a photo of shirtless CNN anchor Chris Cuomo in my Twitter feed. “Dad bod!” a shamer declared. (Preposterous!) I could practically hear the wicked laughter booming from my phone screen.

The hating and the shaming have a severe trickle-down effect. If these are of mock-worthy dad bods, the rest of us men over thirty (and far beyond) don’t have a prayer.

People delight in knocking celebs down. For ages, fat has been seen as funny. I recall Joan Rivers gaining a (positive) reputation for her cracks about Elizabeth Taylor’s weight. I also remember comedians relying on Marlon Brando and “Fat Elvis” for easy laughs.

To be sure, the gay “community” had a weight problem long before dad bod became a label. Indeed, gays have been label queens. There are still frequent sightings of “No fats, no femmes” in dating profiles. “Daddies” have been both shunned and fetishized. When I was coming out in my twenties, people my age were always pointing out the dads in the bar. They usually wore leather, were remarkably hirsute and liked to bare their bellies (and, sometimes, butt cheeks in a revealing pair of chaps).

Make it all stop.

I’m not alone in this. In a September 2019 GQ article called, “How We Ruined the Dad Bod,” Pearson, that onetime college girl who popularized the term, said, “When you shape it into being something that isn’t normal,” she adds, “people start to view their normal as below average.”

Going back to the British GQ article, it further states:

The dad bod movement was all about attraction – a sop for those of us who 

never matched up to the Greek gods prowling the gym or, even more 

devastatingly, had fallen into the age-old trap of ‘letting ourselves go.’ 

The dad bod was sold as an empowering reassurance that even though we 

couldn’t grift as many Instagram likes as our chiselled bros, we still had 

it – with no confirmation of what “it” actually was. As a body-confidence 

sell, the dad bod was, for me...a failure.

RIP, dad bod. The aging process on a man’s midsection is humbling enough without an icky—and now snarky—term to give it some added definition.

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.

BELLY FLOP

Curse you, Ryan. I'm talking to all three of you: Gosling, Kesler and Reynolds. You've set the bar too high. How am I supposed to have abs like that and hold down a day job?

I know, I know,...I shouldn't compare myself to world class athletes and actors with personal trainers and personal chefs. The Ryans do not belong in the realm of reality. And yet they taunt me. Ryan Reynolds has some new superhero movie due out this summer and he will once again put the rest of us to shame as he graces more magazine covers.

I tell myself that the extra weight in the middle region is natural for guys in their forties. We've earned it. That gut should represent contentment before our appetites diminish and we choke down a glass of prune chose every morning. Let the gut push beyond the pecs. The Ryans will be puffier too when the time comes.

And then there's that damn Rob Lowe to blow my rationalization. Stupid Vanity Fair cover. Forty-seven years old. The man needs a super-sized bag of Cheetos. Every day. And a puppy that chews up his sneakers. He's not a Ryan, but his name begins with the same cursed letter.

I avoid the mirror, but I caught a glimpse by mistake this evening. How can I have a beer belly when I don't drink beer? Not even during Canuck games! To be fair, I'm pretty sure the tummy has not inflated to beer belly proportions just yet. I've always been hypersensitive about my weight. People continue to say I'm thin but I worry I'm one Timbit away from a total body shift.

If I had a partner, he'd reassure me. He'd lie and tell me a little bit more weight just means there's that much more of me to love. And then he'd go back to "reading" his Vanity Fair.

Being single, I have to remain vigilant about my weight. Forties contentment must wait. For my online dating profile, I have indicate one of the following as my body type: thin, athletic, average, a few extra pounds, big and tall/BBW or prefer not to say. I don't even know what "BBW" stands for and I am fairly certain that most people will not admire my moral stance in opting for "prefer not to say". People may infer in the same way I do when someone chooses that language for the "Smoker?" line. I am athletic, but lately it's more like Kyle-Wellwood-after-summer-vacation athletic. Not outrageous, but not a draw either.

I know, I know,...I should get back to swimming 2-3 times a week. It's a catch 22. Swimming has always been the best way for me to stay slim, but I won't wear a swimsuit in a public setting until I shed a few pounds.

And, yes, I should content just to be healthy. However, I am not wired that way. I have dieted officially or unofficially as much as Oprah. I have never been considerably overweight; instead, I have ventured the other way...to the point where friends had an intervention with me in university after I discovered that eating only one (large) meal a day helped me shed the pounds to the point where I was fifty-five pounds lighter than I am now. All my fretting and Ryan hating is about 5-8 pounds. But I know see the difference. I feel the difference.

And, yes, I know that an easy place to start getting back on track is to change my Rewards Program. My job is intense and so I build in a couple of perks as the end of the week approaches. Thursday after work, I pick up a Blizzard from DQ. Friday on the way to work, I savor a Solly's cinnamon bun. (I do exercise restraint. I get it without the icing.) I am well aware that I should not reward myself with food, but soft ice cream with crushed mint Oreos mixed in holds so much more appeal than a whole sheet of scratch n sniff stickers or a pat on the back or a whispered, "Way to go."

I slogged away at the gym today and I'll do the same tomorrow...if all that syrup on my weekend reward pancake platter doesn't knock me out for the afternoon (as it usually does). At the very least, I'll walk my dog an extra block. Yep, that'll work off a chew or two.

I don't just curse the Ryans. Aunt Jemima, I curse you, too!