"AM I PORTLY?"

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. At least once a day, I enter the living room and Evan asks, “Do you think I’m portly?”

 

Good god, where’s the escape hatch?

 

As I’ve told Evan multiple times, the answer is no. Still, the question must be asked. Over and over.

 

So what brought this on? Has Evan stopped going to his cardo-yoga classes? No. Is he suffering from a medical condition that causes regular bloating? No. Has he started eating desserts? No. (Blueberries regularly sit in the refrigerator and go bad because I believe someone once told Evan there are natural sugars in fruit and he grew up in a certain gay era where all sugars were considered bad. I’ve seen him eat a single blueberry and then stop.) This is not an issue related to exercise or eating. The problem is Evan is moving.

 

I realize that, for most people, getting ready for a big move does not cause them to go through a crisis regarding body dysmorphia. Moves bring on stress. They stir a sense of melancholy over leaving an established life behind. They induce anxiety over what the future holds and how settling into a new home in an unknown town may come with struggles. But I’ve never known anyone to fret over body weight because of a move.

 

Then again, I’ve never known anyone like Evan.

 

The problem in the biggest sense is that Evan owns a lot of stuff. Furniture. Tchotchkes. Clothes. It’s that last category that triggers, “Am I portly?”

 

Evan spent some of his formative gay years in New York City and Miami. Whereas I embraced the baggy decade of the ’80s, Evan ascribed to a more common gay mindset: the tighter, the better. If you had even a trace of a muscle, the clothing was supposed to smother that bulge like a cast so pecs, biceps, butts and even calf muscles were flaunted. Having to buy a crow bar to undress at the end of the day was just one of those sacrifices made in the name of fashion. And all signs indicate Evan has always loved fashion. 

 

Evan’s current apartment has five closets he has equipped with double and triple rods for accumulating and cramming in the maximum amount of clothing. As well, he has the largest chest of drawers I’ve ever seen. More cramming! Although he asserts he got rid of a lot of clothes when he moved from Seattle to Denver two years ago, “a lot” means too little for someone who can’t walk past a vintage store without going in and will ramble on for twenty minutes espousing the virtues of the brand, Dsquared2, or Ralph Lauren’s contribution to the betterment of the world. (I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh” in the right places.) 

 

Evan has dozens of cowboy boots, at least fifty pairs of jeans, countless jackets and blazers and drawers of shirts I’m afraid to open for fear I’ll never be able to shut them. Do a Google Images search of clothes horse and Evan’s photo should be the first thing that pops up. I believe the Oxford Dictionary is currently amending their definition to include Evan as a synonym.

 

With all that handy storage, Evan has had the luxury of holding onto a massive stockpile of clothing. 

 

That, however, is about to change. His big move is from Denver to the Aspen area, widely regarded as one of the most expensive places to live in the United States. Costs to rent a place are outrageous. At 57, Evan does not want the hourlong commute that some of his younger coworkers have opted for in order to find something more affordable. As well, he rightly considers himself as having aged out of a time when having one or more roommates is palatable. After finally finding a MUCH smaller place for just himself that’s a reasonable commute to and from work, he now has to go through a significant downsizing. Many of his possessions are going to a storage locker but other items are just going. Hello, Goodwill.

 

This leads to the daily “Am I portly?” question.

 

Downsizing comes with painful decisions. What stays? What goes? I’ve shared with Evan the oft-stated rule: if you haven’t worn something for a year, chuck it. I hear him restating it as he talks to himself while staring into one of his closets. He amends the term to two years. But there are too many exceptions to make the rule a rule. While I go out and write—he won’t let me in on the decision-making—he proceeds to try on countless items. 

 

Let me restate the shopping philosophy he was raised on: the tighter, the better. Imagine what happens to him then when trying on a pair of leather pants he bought ten years ago, a shirt from fifteen years ago and a blazer that dates back to last century. (If he reads this post, he’ll take great offense to this paragraph. Where are all the adjectives to describe the utter awesomeness of the pants, the shirt and the blazer? These are not ordinary clothing items. Each has a story and a long list of features to make the item particularly precious.) 

 

Clothes Evan bought many, many years ago were as tight as they could be when he bought them at twenty-three or thirty-six. (I wonder how many XX Small shirts were left on fitting room floors when a sleeve ripped as he tried to get the darn things off.) Now fifty-seven, it stands to reason that some things are even snugger. Uncomfortably so. 

 

Yes, aging sucks. There are indignities even for people who remain fit. That mirror, mirror on the wall betrays us every time.

 

Hence yesterday’s welcoming when I returned from a writing session: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before that: “Am I portly?”

 

The move happens tomorrow and Evan still has to tackle that colossal chest of drawers today. I know I’m going to be hit with that familiar question yet again. And again. Twenty-four hours cannot pass fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

IS IT BACK?

The question in the title popped in my head but it’s wrong. “Is it worse?” is far more accurate. The answer: “Of course.”

 

Talking about my eating disorder again. I have nine hours until I eat. I’m telling myself I’m just dieting, but I don’t think people with eating disorders know how to just diet. As someone with anorexia, my restriction is significant in the best of times, extreme under other circumstances.

 

Sitting here in a café, I perked up when the barista asked if I wanted water: “Regular or sparkling?” I chose the latter, cheered that the bubbles will trick my stomach into thinking I’m consuming something more substantial. 

 

Club soda is now on my shopping list.

 

I recently spent two weeks at the cottage and that “vacation,” a trip intended for relaxation has triggered me. Driving from the airport, I stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on my “safe” foods. I tend to treat myself to a few scones on vacation and I needed to know the fridge supplies had things that would somewhat offset my intake. This is what I always do when I go to the cottage.

 

The problem was this wasn’t a regular cottage stay. Normally it’s almost all downtime, just me and the deck, the beach below offering an inviting morning walk, the river suggesting a quick swim (when no one could possibly be watching). 

 

Throughout the fortnight, however, I only had two dinners on my own. Friends and relatives were around me the rest of the time. It was all lovely. These are wonderful people. But, as is often the case, food is a central conduit for social activity. My eating disorder slithers on the sidelines in social situations. I don’t like to be a spectacle. I don’t want people seeing my small portions and pushing more food on me. When poked and prodded, the eating disorder gets worse. It doubles down. I eat even less. I refuse social invitations. I isolate.

 

I truly thought I was doing well. I ate “normally.” I socialized as best I could. I enjoyed the conversations. I appreciated the food. 

 

The eating disorder was left to sit back and stew. It waited patiently for the visits to end, for the time to take over, guilting me and sending me into severe restriction mode. The opportunity came as soon as I drove to the airport. No farewell donut, no mixed berry scone. Not even that little baggy of pretzels on the plane. 

 

I didn’t stand a chance in trying to dismiss the eating disorder. I was worn out. As an introvert, all the socializing left me exhausted. I was ignoring hunger pangs before I’d even landed back in Vancouver. 

 

People talk about being too tired to eat. For me, it’s the other way around. Not eating makes me too tired. My afternoons are write-offs. No writing. It doesn’t seem to make sense—not much makes sense with an eating disorder—but the only “productive” thing I can do midafternoon is exercise. I never think about food when I’m working out. The exercise is another part of my disorder. It demands full attention. There are no excuses permitted. 

 

I have several friends I’m supposed to contact now that I’m back. It’s been a week and I don’t have the energy to make any attempt to reach out. My social exhaustion is both separate from and woven into the eating disorder. The isolation helps me stick to my disordered behaviours.

 

As I’m sixty now, I wear the weight on my body differently. Even a year ago, some of the weight I perceive as gaining from pastries and full meals would have already dropped off. Only a little weight loss typically shows. Less than ten pounds under my standard weight and I start to look scary—gaunt face, protruding ribs, loss of muscle. The weight insists on lingering this time around. This will make my heightened eating disorder behaviours more established, perhaps even more drastic.

 

Yes, I’m thinking of club soda as a meal.

 

I’m telling myself this is just a rough patch. Some temporary tweaking. I should be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

SHAPE (Documentary Film Review)

I’ve seen a lot of mediocre documentaries since the introduction of streaming channels. They can be cheaply made, a series of interviews on a single set, a few cheesy reenactments, too often the key people not participating in the production, leaving the “truth” to be told by people two or three degrees from what actually happened. Because of this, I now make snap decisions, tuning out many a documentary within the first five minutes.  

 

Shape: When Idolisation Leads to Exclusion is an Australian documentary available for watching on YouTube that I may have given up on, but someone I respect as a deeper thinker recommended it to my partner, Evan, and so I decided to stick it out. I would watch it; Evan would watch it; then we’d come together to discuss over FaceTime. Being as we have a Vancouver – Denver long-distance relationship, our version of movie night can take a few days to unfold. 

 

Shape unfolds on a simple set, a stage on which six different queer people appear separately to offer their opinions on finding one’s place in the gay community and how one’s appearance plays a major factor in a de facto sorting system.

 

The interviewees, along with how they are identified in the film are: Miss Jay (drag queen); Stewart (casual model / dance party promoter); Stefan (Gen X, 55); Aaron (President, Vic Bears); Budi (intersectionality, equity and justice trainer; consultant; director, Ananda Training & Consultancy); and Glen (associate professor, La Trobe University / clinical psychologist).

 

Aaron, a self-described bear,
sees gay men as having
restrictive views on body shape.
He believes there is even
work to be done among bears.

Nothing in the film is earth-shattering, at least not for anyone who has been immersed in the gay community in the past several decades. From the film’s outset, I found myself nodding but wondering if I needed to stick with the ninety-minute documentary. It felt like listening to a new alphabet song—all familiar letters, just different rhythms and notes. 

 

And yet I stayed with it. I resisted the temptation to get up and tidy the living room or do the dinner dishes while the documentary droned on. I wondered if there might be a different take, however slight, when listening to a half dozen people immersed in, or at least exposed to, Australia’s gay scene.

 

“To be as diverse as we think we are,” Aaron says, “we need to get rid of the discrimination.” Hmm…the differences, if any, would be subtle.

 

Stefan, in his mid-50s, often
comes across as exasperated 
by ageism amongst gays.

The film is slow in the beginning. With half a dozen interviewees, it takes a while to get to know them. They have each been chosen to offer a slightly different take on gay inclusion, and lack thereof. Connection on film, just as in the gay scene takes time. For many a viewer, the familiarity of the gripes made about gay interactions may lead one to turn away—been there, heard that. 

 

Still there’s something to be said for the cumulative effect of six strangers, talking separately, yet echoing one another, delivering one consistent message: things are messed up. 

 

The film becomes most compelling when the interviewees are asked to read and react to Grindr profiles. In the virtual world, many do not even consider the pretense of politeness and acceptance. It’s brutal hearing profiles men have typed, saved and posted that boldly—and offensively—say this is what I want; this is what I don’t want. “This” is not a product, however; instead, it is whole groups of people. We know this about Grindr, but listening to the participants read and respond makes one want to auto-delete everyone’s profile. Grindr is too far gone. Is there a way to start over?

 

I had another reason to be hesitant in viewing Shape. The main topic is about an important one—how our looks, in general, and our bodies, more specifically—affect our integration into the gay community. I have an eating disorder. Too much talk over body ideals and body flaws can be triggering. I’m presently in one of my greater periods of struggle. One body shot or one phrase might hit me the wrong way and set me back even more. Because of this, I am grateful the film limits its images of body ideals at least until two-thirds in. One shirtless white model, who does not have a speaking part poses between interview segments. Then there is a model who would be called a twink, one who would be a daddy and one who is Asian, each of them fitting a proximation of a body ideal. By limiting the men and images, I did not become overwhelmed by notions of body perfection. 

 

When the film starts to talk about men portrayed on social media and in ads, there is a deluge of The Body Beautiful but by then I was invested enough in the film and I’d heard enough from the interviewees, each offering a form of support by saying this objectification and the higher stature it brings in the gay community are fucked up. 

 

Budi, who is of Indonesian
descent, makes many astute
comments about how gays 
discriminate over race, height
and views of masculinity and
femininity.

I didn’t reach for the button to close my YouTube window. I managed to watch the whole documentary without feeling any more messed up than I am. In fact, I went away with my feelings affirmed. Yes, the “community” has some growing up to do. The acceptance and inclusion we seek in greater society is often lacking within the Pride fold, particularly amongst gay men.

 

In general, I think gays are nicer people. We’re kind; we’re sensitive. 

 

Until we’re not. There’s the group mentality that I witnessed—and, yes, partook in—as I was coming out in the late ’80s. The gay bar was a sieve, washing away all the Not Good Enoughs, limiting everyone’s gaze to men with seemingly perfect hair, faces and bodies. Little things—a bit of body hair, a possible love handle, an underwhelming bicep—constituted reasons to overlook so many people. “Swipe left” culture existed long before the apps.  

 

I’ve often lamented that groups of gay men often go through a difficult journey—even now—in coming out, only to find rejection and cliquey behaviors in the very “community” that knows all too well about the struggle to be truly accepted for who we are. Why must we continue to dismiss and discriminate amongst our own?

 

Shape is worth a watch. Better yet, it’s worth watching with a partner and/or friends. While the messages are familiar, sometimes it helps to hear things from other people, offering another opportunity for reflection about our place in the “community” and what we can do or not do to stop us from swimming in the shallow end so we can explore deeper topics and people. The discussion that can arise during and after watching this documentary might cause some of us to rethink how we view our own, be it ourselves or our community. 

 

If you do watch it, feel to leave a comment or two about your thoughts. I’m curious to know what takeaways others get from the film.

 

 

 

 

BODIES ARE COOL (Book Review)

By Tyler Feder

(Dial Books for Young Readers, 2021)

I’m on book alert wherever I go. Libraries, bookstores and Free Little Libraries (Love ’em!) are obvious places to browse unknown titles and reconnect with things read, but I’m pleasantly distracted by book sightings in cafes, on planes, and when passing park benches where someone has decided to put the day on pause and dig into a biography, a romance, an essay collection or maybe that Dragons Love Tacos picture book yet again, no kids necessary. (It’s the literary way to celebrate Taco Tuesday.)

 

I first spotted Bodies Are Cool in a curated collection at Kits Beach Coffee where they have several bookshelves stocked with their Equitable Literacy Library. It would drive the anti-woke crowd crazy. (Fine by me.) As they explain online:

Our wide range of books and interactive selections examine the intersections between colonial-settler history, climate, justice, anti-racism, cultural awareness and gender that goes beyond the binary…We have books that encourage self-inquiry, healing, nurturing our eco-systems, essays and poems and a sensory section for children and adults.

 

I was focused on a writing project at the time so I only scanned titles during the time it took the barista to prepare my oat milk latte. I’d biked there and knew from the good vibes I’d be back. I could have a more serious browse next time. 

 

A couple weeks later, I biked to a vegan bakery, To Live For. (This is where anti-woke folk click away, if they haven’t already done so, to get updates on the latest conspiracy theories and “alternative facts.” Have a nice day.) The place was packed midmorning on a Monday, the line extending outside. (A thriving vegan establishment! Made me smile.) While waiting for another oat milk latte, I spotted a tidy collection of children’s books, items to let parents and young children bond or, more likely, occupy the kiddos while mommies (and daddies) got a daily dose of adult conversation. Once again, Bodies Are Cool was part of the collection. I made a note of the title and eventually checked it out at the library. So glad I did!

 

This book is both simple and brilliant. It’s what you’d think it would be, based on the title and the cover illustration which features bodies of different skin colors, sizes and markings, wearing swimsuits (or is it underwear?), floating on a soft pink background. Each double-page spread focuses on a particular aspect of bodies (eyes; body hair; tummy sizes) and expressly normalizes how diverse our bodies are. The text on each spread ends with, “Bodies are cool!” 

 

Sixteen times: “Bodies are cool!”

 

Hallelujah! 

 

Round bodies, muscled bodies,

curvy curves and straight bodies,

jiggly-wiggly fat bodies.

bodies are cool!

 

(I got a little edgy over the reference to “fat bodies,” but that’s because I’ve grown up with fat weaponized, meant to ridicule and shame. That’s not what this book is about. The word is taken back, used matter-of-factly. I have to remind myself that obese has a medical definition, fact-based, instead of playground-pitched.) 

 

There are seven images of people in various wheelchairs, a rarity in picture books that aren’t specifically about someone needing one. People are shown with canes, crutches and arm supports. A woman in a dance class has a prosthetic leg. People wear glasses, someone has an eyepatch, another walks with a seeing-eye dog (and a white cane). There’s so much more, including things I’ve likely missed in my first three reads. Blotchy skin, scars, hairy legs, bald heads, bandanas, hijabs, turbans, swim caps, helmets. 

 

The beauty of picture books is they can be read and viewed, quickly or lingered upon. Repeated readings allow for the focus to change. In a book like this, new images and attributes will be noticed each time. Questions get blurted.

 

“Why is her stomach like that?” 

 

“Eww. His skin!”

 

“What’s wrong with that boy’s hair?”

 

With a picture book, unfiltered comments create teachable moments. Kids will notice differences and ask questions that lack tact. But their questions can be answered by a trusted, non-judgmental adult instead of by a classmate with bullying tendencies.

 

If only this book had been around when I was growing up.

 

I remember a familiar admonishment from my mother when we’d be at the mall or grocery store: “Don’t stare.” Children are naturally curious and they tend to look longer when seeing some aspect of a person they haven’t seen before. There is a natural curiosity. In those don’t-stare instances, there was never any follow-up discussion to what I might have crassly phrased as, “What’s wrong with that person?” No learning. Differences were not to be talked about. It only meant that, next time, I’d have the same inclination to look and then self-censor. Something was bad about me. I wasn’t supposed to see a difference. I certainly wasn’t supposed to wonder about it. Social propriety, a big thing in my upbringing, nixed social understanding. 

 

Somewhere in Texas, in Keller Independent School District, maybe elsewhere, this book is banned. Hard to know why. My best guess is the text saying, “This body, that body, his and her and their body. However YOU define your body! Bodies are cool!” An offending pronoun, an objection to defining your own body. Apparently, society must do that (as defined by God-fearing Texans). Let the harm go on. 

I hope families regularly check out this book. I hope they ask librarians to order it. I hope they buy a copy for their home library.

 

With this book, children will learn as they are ready to, based on what they notice. They will connect the illustrations to what they see in the real world. They may still stare, but more likely as an a-ha/I Spy moment: Bodies are cool!

 

A book like this as a part of one’s childhood has the potential to reduce instances of low self-esteem and body image struggles as a child, during the awkward adolescent years and into adulthood when many people continue to size up bodies, when we continue to be inundated by images of Ryan Gosling’s abs, Ariana Grande’s petiteness, Julia Roberts’ hair and that dude in the latest Calvin Klein ads. 

 

I think of my own body issues, my eating disorder and the prevalence of body dysmorphia among gay men. Gay bars could be harsh, a hierarchy established immediately upon walking or sashaying in. Now, I suppose, with gay bars no longer an epicenter of gay culture, the dismissals aren’t so much to one’s face, but empty message boxes on dating apps leave users to speculate how many times their best pics were met with a rapid swipe left. If only we’d all grown up with this book.

 

Alas, not everyone will gain access to Bodies Are Cool. Not everyone will accept the message. There will always be forces that rank and revile. Still, this book can make a difference, both for the youngster to whom the book is read and the adult reading it and answering the questions that pop up. 

 

Bodies Are Cool is very, very cool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A SHIFTING STAR

Thanks, Zac.

 

Every so often, a celebrity gets real. Jamie Lee Curtis poses without makeup and editorial touchups. Selena Gomez shows her “real stomach” on TikTok. Anna Kendrick discusses an abusive relationship. Sometimes these buzzy interviews and articles don’t even coincide with a new movie or album that needs promotion. 

 

Mr. Efron made news last week after CNN lifted a few quotes from a Men’s Health interview. The brief CNN piecenoted that the actor was “currently bulking up for an unnamed role.” If this was supposed to be part of a publicity tour, the producers and his agent must have bruised noggins from repeated head banging. Are readers primed to run out and see Zac Efron in Unnamed Role in an as yet untitled movie/play/TV show/antacid commercial? Even if I were a Zac fan (I’m not, I swear), I wouldn’t have a clue what to input on my phone calendar. Perhaps Mr. Efron had nothing better to do between bulking up tasks than to sit down or Zoom in for a chat with some very persistent reporter. 

 

Efron contends that his ultra-muscled body seen in a “Baywatch” movie from 2017 is unattainable. Technically, it was attainable, at least by Efron, likely with assistance from a full-time personal trainer and perhaps a personal chef. Plus, getting into shape for his role as a studly lifeguard was his job. It was his primary means of preparation. To do so, he got paid more than most of us will earn in a decade or two. Still, he said, "There's just too little water in the skin. Like, it's fake; it looks CGI'd."

 

It didn’t seem that Efron was gloating and doing some version of Superior Dance à la The Church Lady from SNL. The message was that his coveted body came at too great a cost. Efron noted that he ate the same food three times a day. He took diuretics in addition to fitness training and noted that his regimen led to sleep difficulties, depression and other problems that lasted for six months after he let up from his silver screen-primed bod. Technically attainable but ludicrous to strive for. Efron seemed to give the quest a thumbs down. 

 

Cover boy Efron in 2012.

Something told me, as a responsible blogger who nonetheless gets paid nothing for his thoughts, I should go to the original source. I hesitated. Men’s Health is unhealthy for me. The incarnation of the magazine I knew always sported a buff, hypermasculine male model on the cover along with promoted articles about Ten Exercises to Lose the Flab and “easy,” “quick” ways to get washboard abs.  (They’ve apparently changed the cover format in recent years, opting for a celebrity shot of Michael B. Jordan, Kumail Nanjiani or Mark Wahlberg in hopes their fans and oglers will scoop up drugstore copies.) Back in the day, I probably bought an issue a time or two. 

 

Easy abs? I’m in!

 

More often, I’d browse through a copy left behind at the laundromat or sitting on a table at the hair salon as my highlights were setting. (So far from being hypermasculine!) I never subscribed. I really wasn’t the target reader for “5 Ways to Hone Your Triceps While Using a Chainsaw.” But then, was anyone? I suspect guys with chainsaws wouldn’t touch a magazine with a himbo on the cover. Subscribers were probably desperate teen guys in Chess Club while newsstand copies got scooped up by gay men and straight women seeking a little titillation during the flight from Denver to Omaha.

 

I earnestly read/viewed a few of the articles. The thought of getting Popeye biceps from a ten-minute daily routine enticed me. Same with the pitch for defined pecs and deltoids that dazzle. Men’s Health did for me what all those diet books did for women. It appealed to my insecurities. It pestered, beckoned and lured. 

 

Psst. Hey you, flawed person. Sucks, right? 

 

I’ve got a fix for you. Buy me. You gotta invest if you want results. 

 

Might as well have bought snake oil, chucked a couple quarters in the wishing well and rubbed the belly of a Buddha statue. I wasn’t going to get shirtless selfie-worthy abs no matter how many minutes or days I spent doing the five exercises the model demonstrated in the magazine spread. (That’s not how he got them either.) All Men’s Health did for me was reinforce that my body was substandard, that it would always need more work, that I was some outlier who couldn’t achieve results from following a clear routine that was practically GUARANTEED to transform a typical dude. 

 

In offering false hope, the magazine contributed to my eating disorder behaviors—less food, more exercise. No doubt, it has exacerbated other men’s body dysmorphia, too. What you’ve got is never good enough. The body could always use more hulk and bulk, more honing and toning. 

 

Thankfully, I was able to pull the full article online without having to browse the rest of the issue. Efron’s message isn’t as enlightened as CNN led me to believe. He’s still a slave to strict exercise and food intake practices. Even the CNN article hinted at this by including this comment after Efron knocked what he viewed as extreme practices:  "I much prefer to have an extra, you know, 2 to 3 percent body fat." Gosh, three percent body fat. Now that’s attainable!

 

Efron is still a slave to his past image. His pre-production preparation for his unspecified upcoming project consists of “bulking up.” He’s not sitting home and embracing a muffin-top midriff while watching “Real Housewives” marathons as he chows down on packages of Little Debbie’s Mini Donuts and spoon-feeds himself pints of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. (Surely, the word “chunky” would scare him off.) He continues to make a living from being buff, most likely continuing to have a personal trainer and answering to a pesky agent and producers who demand to see his daily food and exercise journals. Efron is a commodity to them. 

 

A portion of the interview was conducted at a steakhouse and the writer mentions that Efron split a filet mignon, a “seafood tower” and a “Japanese A5 Wagyu steak.” Sorry, a meal of donuts and ice cream seems more conventional.

 

Efron is not going to ever be a role model for guys battling body dysmorphia.  

 

People online tried to shame Efron 
a couple of years ago for his
supposed "dad bod," seen on 
the right. Utterly ridiculous.

But it’s still something that he admits that his movie-perfect body is both unrealistic and comes with damaging consequences. Maybe that is enough to give a few guys obsessing over their bodies a tiny jolt. Maybe they’ll cut themselves some slack. Have a croissant, take a day off from the gym or at least cut a few sets. Go for dinner with a friend and order something off the menu that sounds tasty even if it isn’t high in protein. Maybe even split an appetizer—fully loaded nachos. 

 

I’m too entrenched with my own unhealthy, extremes ways of exercising, eating and thinking about my body, but there’s hope for vulnerable twenty-somethings who feel inferior from seeing actors like Efron in movies like “Baywatch” and from seeing the stream of shirtless selfies posted by gym rats on Twitter. 

 

Stop sucking in your stomach for photos. Live a little. Let go a little. Just breathe. Just be. 

THE SWIMSUIT ISSUE, 2022

Sorry to disappoint. You won’t find a pic of Elizabeth Hurley here, rocking a bikini at 57. Google again. You’ll find her.

 

I’ve blogged about swimsuits before. One tiny article of clothing exposes so much in terms of skin and insecurities. They say fashion goes in cycles and I’m still waiting for men’s early twentieth-century swim apparel to return to vogue.  

 

Alas, we’re stuck with bare chests and bellies at least until Vogue taps Harry Styles’s shoulder for another buzzy photo shoot to offer an uptick in subscriptions. Until then, my dilemma continues. I love swimming, but I hate suiting up. 

 

Swimming has played a major part in my life. I grew up privileged with a pool in our backyard. My family spent spring breaks on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida where I’d splash about in the waves and didn’t think twice about combing the beach for seashells, no shoes, no shirt required. In summer, we’d spend weeks at our family cottage on a beach along the Ottawa River, where I’d join friends playing King of the Raft, canoeing and water skiing. I had a favorite Ottawa Valley shirt I wore too much, but most of the time I went around shirtless, my pale skin turning from the traditional first burn of the season—ouch!—to some shade of bronze, with ever-growing freckle constellations.

 

I was on swim team in high school, by no means a star athlete; it was my exit pass to get away from all the other uncoordinated geeks who weren’t on the football team, the basketball team, the track team, the tennis team or even in golf. After only a week of acculturation at my East Texas high school, I knew I’d face permanent ostracization if I stayed enrolled in basic P.E. Swim team was one small step above P.E. and it spared me from dreaded rope climbs and being full- or half-nelsoned on never-washed wrestling mats by sweaty guys who’d hadn’t been told it was time to start wearing deodorant. 

 

Throughout university, I lifeguarded during the summers. I worked at a pool operated by an association supporting persons with developmental disabilities and, after my first week there, I knew I wanted to become a special education teacher. So, yeah, swimming means a lot to me.

 

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being nonchalant about wearing a Speedo and letting my tummy catch some rays. I became aware of guys like Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassidy with surfer bods gracing teen fan magazines and Tom Selleck and Lee Majors captured in beachy shots for People. I’d glimpse at myself in the mirror—no chest, no abs, a fleshy midriff that couldn’t pass that dadgum Special K “pinch more than an inch” test…which, to this day, I believe damaged so many psyches. There have been class action lawsuits against tobacco manufacturers, but I’m still waiting to opt in on legal action against Kellogg’s.

 

I suddenly felt like I should cover up. It’s not like I lost confidence. I never had that in the first place. I just stopped being oblivious. I didn’t have anything to show off. It would be better for all if I shirted up. 

 

Photos of me in just a swimsuit after high school are extremely rare. I don’t ever give anyone the opportunity to snap a shot. I swim laps in pools where I’m 98% certain I will not run into anyone I know. At the cottage, I won’t swim in front of it if anyone else is there. If it’s unbearably hot, I’ll walk to the end of the beach—“It’s not as rocky there,” I say—and take a quick dip before covering myself in a towel which I always leave at the shore’s edge. I no longer get burns or tans or a single freckle much less a constellation because skin exposure is too brief.

 

There was one photo I actually allowed to be taken in late summer 2014. While flying somewhere, I’d picked up the airline’s magazine—remember those?—and read about swim vacations where people swim each day as part of their travel journey in Croatia, Slovenia or even in Lake Powell, Arizona. When I did the research back home, the trips turned out to be quite pricey, but I stumbled upon information about a monthly swim from Alcatraz to shore in San Francisco. I lived in a rural area on BC’s Sunshine Coast at the time and did a bit of open water ocean swimming to train for the event. A colleague who was in a paddling club volunteered to take me along with her outrigger team one Saturday morning, venturing farther out to sea so the I could jump in the water and swim along the craft, the outrigging crew serving as my guides. She snapped a picture of me with my shirt off just as I was about to jump in and took more photos as I swam alongside the boat. 

 

As it turned out, I rather liked the photo. I was in good shape, having lost weight during a hospital stay four months earlier and working out fanatically thereafter. I posted several of the shots on Facebook—a braver act for me than the actual Alcatraz swim. Unfortunately, a friend commented that from my position in the boat, it appeared as though the ‘iako (the wooden boom) extending from the vessel looked like a long appendage jutting from between my legs. Um, ew. And, yes, she had a point. My only swimsuit pic from the twenty-first century had the illusion of being obscene if one wanted to imagine me growing a wooden man-part. I was mortified!

 

It was a sign. The world would be a better place if I kept my shirt on. Indeed, I successfully swam from Alcatraz in a wetsuit for reasons unrelated to vanity. While a few participants swam in Speedos, the majority wanted more warmth as we navigated the colder waters in the San Francisco Bay. But, yeah, the day of flashing my belly was done. Silver lining: in the years since, I’ve surely saved a fair amount of money on sunscreen. Not enough to afford an extra trip to Stockholm, but surely a few lattes with Oatly from Sweden. Skål!

 

My partner, Evan, does not have body issues. He can be as self-conscious as any gay man, but it doesn’t get in the way of living life to its fullest. He’s an avid yoga participant, one of those nuts who insists on doing it in studios where they crank up the heat and the men don’t where shirts. Given the temperature setting, the mirrors everywhere, the abnormal stretching—I have zero flexibility or coordination—and the shirtless component, it literally sounds like Hell. He continues to pitch the idea of us doing a class together, but Hell will have to freeze over…or at least turn on the A/C before that ever happens. Even then, not gonna happen. If I attempted the tree pose, it would be “Timber!” after a mere second and the “downward dog” cue would have me glancing at the mats, hoping to spot an off-leash schnauzer. Sadly, I’m a tad rusty with my role in the “shake a paw” routine. Not yoga, but way more Zen.

 

Being as Evan’s apartment is two blocks from Lake Union in Seattle, we often walk down to have a picnic and watch for the resident beaver who’s as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster when I’m present. During my last couple of visits, we’ve gone swimming. If it were just Evan and strangers who are not my neighbors, taking my shirt off and wading in sloooowly wouldn’t be a big deal. But Evan’s way more social than I am. He invites friends. (The introvert in me thinks, Good god, who does that?! My logical mind butts in with the reply: Um…everyone but you. Damn.)

 

So I’ve had to appear normal, acting something possibly resembling casual as I lift my shirt over my head, turn away from the friends who are hopefully still distracted by my decoy blurt—“Was that the beaver over there?”—and wade in. STAT! You get used to the cold water once you’re fully submerged, right?

 

On my latest visit, I met Evan and his friend Ronald down at a dock after I spent the day café-hopping, writing in Seattle’s Fremont and Ballard neighborhoods. I hadn’t packed a swimsuit so I had to borrow one of Evan’s before heading over. The guy is even more of a clothes horse than I am and, as a former Miami resident, he had thirty suits to choose from. Unfortunately, as a former Miami gay, all of them were far skimpier than anything I own. Was this swimwear or fabric samples? Hell was hounding me.

 

Evan texted: “Where are you?” Then: “Hurry.” No doubt, he knew I was fretting. He knew I was two minutes away from a fashion crisis to eclipse any Milan runway meltdown or that Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl. I slipped on a swimsuit, pulled my shorts over it and headed to the dock, trying to take deep breaths and going over my own calming script: “You do this and you get a double scoop at Salt & Straw.” Neither carrot nor stick will ever motivate me, but Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip has had encouraging results. 

 

The dock was crowded, mostly by thirty-something hipsters proudly exposing body tattoos. (If I’d been inked at that age, my body would be an ode to Ace of Base (central upper back), “No soup for you!” (scrawled upward, right calf) and a double nod to Angela Lansbury, as Jessica Fletcher (right forearm) and Beauty and the Beast’s Mrs. Potts (left ankle). 

 

No tattoos for me. Thank god.

 

After ten minutes of chitchat, Evan was ready for another dip in the lake. Ronald declined. That meant I could keep Ronald company or shed the shirt and go for a swim. Sometimes being an introvert is a motivator too. If Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip is my carrot, the prospect of continuing a conversation with someone I’m still getting to know is my stick. Shirt off. Hello, lake.

 

But I was too slow to the plunge. I heard Evan say, “Ronald, will you take our picture?” Some smiles are more forced than others. And prolonged. Ronald suddenly assumed the role of professional photographer. 

 

“Okay, look at each other.”

“Now one gazing out at the water. And another.”

“Come on, James. Smile.”

 

Not as bad as hot yoga, I told myself. But Hell-adjacent.  

 

At last, it was over. I went with cannonball instead of wading in. Sorry, Ronald. Did I get you wet? “Did the phone get wet? Is it damaged?” No, dammit, it was just fine. Stupid beach towels!

 

The swim turned out to be great fun. The two of us swam out to a mooring which I ascended, assisted by knotted ropes, something eighteen-year-old me wouldn’t have even tried. Maybe I wanted to show off for my boyfriend. He followed my lead and then came the inevitable quandary: how to get down. It was twist on one of my recurring nightmares where I’m standing on the edge of a high-dive, legs shaking, a crowd watching, a lineup of seven-year-olds waiting on the ladder, encouraging/taunting me with, “Jump!” and “Hurry up, old man!”

 

Evan called to shore, “Ronald! Take our picture!” In a sleep-time nightmare, you can will your eyes to open and be done with it. I blinked, but nothing changed. This was my comeuppance for showing off. “Let’s jump together,” Evan said. “On three…”

 

“I’m not ready,” I said while trying to retain my fake smile for the click-happy photographer on shore. Turns out that, as I’ve gotten older, whatever fear of heights I’ve had has gotten worse. I imagined the lake feeling like concrete when I hit it. I thought about my body submerging deep down in a thicket of slimy seaweed with prehistoric looking fish wondering if the mole on my back might be worth a bite. I wondered if one of the wine bottles on the dock might shatter as my scream hit the highest C-note on the way down. 

 

I could have stayed atop that mooring all evening. Eventually, I’d be able to wave down the Coast Guard. Perhaps a sea gull might take perch atop my head. (Snap that, Ronald.)

 

Evan only had to say “On three” a couple of dozen times. I feared Ronald was getting too many shots, my fake smile long-departed, my body far too exposed. “One, two—”

 

Down we went. Back to shore. Covered by a towel. (Me, at least.) It was as fine a time it could be, all things considered.

 

Mercifully, the pics of us on the
lake are distant and blurred. That's
Evan in front, me behind. I swear,
things looked scarier from up there.

Five days later, I allowed myself to remember the occasion. I texted Evan, asking if he could nudge Ronald to send along the photos. I was genuinely curious, gay vanity gaining the edge over body insecurity. It wasn’t long until my phone buzzed in rapid succession. Evan’s one of those who texts each thought separately. Photo after photo arrived on my screen. Aw, my Evan. So handsome. And I dared to glance at the ghostly white figure by his side. I didn’t see fat. I didn’t see anything particularly horrifying. I allowed myself to conclude my body was okay. Trick photography perhaps? I’ll take it. But, no, dear reader, I won’t post it.