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.

DEAD AND THEN SOME

So I faced another birthday. 51. There was a time making 50 was very much in doubt. Each extra year is a bonus even if I’m still not very appreciative. What did I do for my birthday?

First stop, the hospital. Silly follow-up appointment after dislocating my pinky playing volleyball. Another X-ray and then a hand therapy session. Then an unrelated medical appointment later in the day.

Yep, this is 51.

Used to be I could go years without seeing a doctor. Way back in the realm of thirtysomething. Really, I haven’t slowed down a bit. I’m as fit as I’ve ever been. This was just bad timing. The payoff, I suppose, was that I didn’t have to work on my birthday. Woo-hoo. Except I am not one to celebrate. Haven’t for decades. (There’s another sign of aging—I speak in terms of decades, not years. Somebody better slap me when I begin my sentences with, “I remember last century…”)  

Ever since I hit my 20s, I’ve cringed at the notion that someone would buy me dinner or a card just because the calendar makes it obligatory. I don’t even earn a free coffee with my Starbucks Rewards card on my birthday. (I chose my dog’s birthday instead.) I don’t know why this is such a thing for me. I suppose it came from a disappointing birthday long, long ago. Something I have successfully repressed. I might be able to dig it up if I cared. My second medical appointment was with my psychiatrist. I’d say he’s got some work to do!

If I’d wanted to, I could have had my boyfriend take me to dinner. But I broke up with him two days ago. It’s okay. It was a short run. Not quite a click. No reason to drag things out. I can pay for my own pizza. 51 and single. Again. (The birthday and the breakup were in no way connected. Well, maybe I accelerated to the ending so he wouldn’t splurge on a dinner only to get dumped. Wasn’t that into him, weren’t meant to be…and all that.)

One might say it is foolish to choose to be single, especially since I have craved connection. I’m too choosy. I should compromise. I am, after all, 51.

As a gay man, 51 is beyond ancient. 40 is ancient. 50 is dead. 51 then is beyond dead. I am a zombie or some other living-dead thingy. I don’t follow that genre. Being gay and irrelevant should be freeing. No more watching my weight. No more manscaping. Stop checking for ear hair. I should learn to play pinochle. Go lawn bowling. Make a scrapbook for someone else’s grandchildren.

But I’m not ready to be ancient or some living-dead creature. I’m not ready to throw in the gym towel. I still want to matter. To someone. Maybe even to myself.

The “big day” wasn’t so big. Came and went. Skipped the gym but went for a long bike ride. Admired the trees as they marked a new season. No cake when I got home. I’m not much of a baker and I’m one of those weird ones who successfully brainwashed himself to believe kale is better than cake.

I strolled the seawall after dinner. Earnest salted caramel ice cream called. A risky indulgence. But better than cake, better than kale. (The mind will only succumb to so much trickery.)

51. Made it. Now it’s up to me to make something of it.

HELLO, NEIGHBOR

If you’ve checked out my blog on a semi-regular basis, you know that I’ve spent the last eight years in a gay black hole. I do hear about rare gay couple sightings along the sixty or so kilometers of coastline in my region, but maybe that’s just a rural legend. Cougar reports are more frequent. There are two gay couples I know exist in the closest town. They own competing coffee shops. (New dating plan: open my own café and hope it lures a future co-owner/husband. I do love a good latté.)

Single gay sightings do not occur. It seems I’m the one and only. The last dodo bird. A creature too thick in the head to know that there is no chance for survival in the current habitat.

Yes, I tried to relocate. Over the course of three years, the house would not sell. I put in on the market, took it off, put it on, took it off. In early June, I was about to re-list, when two homes on my street suddenly donned FOR SALE signs. Too much competition. I bowed out. Within a month, I accepted a new job only a two-minute drive from home. I was here to stay. Love it if you can’t leave it.

To my surprise, both houses on my street sold over the summer. It meant an end to the suspected drug activity across the street and goodbye to a family a few houses down. On October 1, moving vans zipped in and out of my cul-de-sac. However, I never glimpsed the new neighbors.

Two weeks ago, I was in the midst on my Sunday afternoon grocery shopping in town, strolling the Health Food/Toilet Paper aisle, lost in thought. (Are these products grouped together by coincidence? If I buy the Cashmere toilet paper while it’s on sale, can I make my own bargain sweater?)

And then someone yelled down the aisle. “Jim. Jim Gregory.”

Huh? Sure that’s me. But I’ve gone by James ever since I moved here. It’s the first place where people haven’t cut it to Jim or Jimmy as soon as we got on friendly terms. (Maybe it’s just a reminder that I’m not that friendly with anyone in my area.)

I turned and Anson Turnbull walked right up. Hadn’t seen him in ten years. Back when I lived in Vancouver, we played in a gay tennis league, often carpooling to the courts. Nice guy if you can get past his perpetual awkwardness. He works as a technical writer and speaks the same way. Everything is very precise, each comment screened and revised in the millisecond between thought and speech.

“Anson? What are you doing here?”

“I just moved here.”

“Where?”

“Cedar Creek.”

“I live in Cedar Creek! Where?”

“On Newton Road.”

“I live on Newton Road!”

Yep. Hello, neighbor. The single gay male contingent suddenly doubled.

And before you get any ideas, dear reader, there will be no mating efforts between these two dodo birds. Still, it’s nice to have some company. We went for coffee—at one of the gay-owned coffeehouses, of course—and got caught up. Like all my former tennis friends, he’s been sidelined by physical limitations that pop up during middle age (Achilles tendon, in his case), but Anson is a welcome addition to the neighborhood.

Now I wonder who’s in the drug house...

ALWAYS FIVE, NOT FOUR

Okay, I’m obsessing now. I’d love to blog about something else—anything else—but today's post is an attempt to clear my head. Not that it will work, but I can say I tried. It is safer to share in the virtual world. You, potential reader, can quickly click over to something more interesting—perhaps a YouTube video with crazy cats on catnip, an impassioned defense of Miley’s right to twerk or a how-to article on filing down the corns on your feet. Yes, there is so much competition for your time on the internet. I just need to purge myself of a weighty issue, namely, my weight.

To be clear, I am not a candidate for “The Biggest Loser” or some other televised humiliation approach to dieting. In fact, fully clothed, most people would think I am trim. But I have five pesky pounds to shed and, like unwelcome houseguests, they won’t take the cue from my looks of contempt and disgust and leave.

Oh, how I hate my five hangers on! They have led me to an existence of non-fat/low-fat, flavor-lite meals and six workouts a week. Nothing I do gets them to scram once and for all (or even for one blessed day).

Every summer I have to up the effort to trim the gut and every summer I have succeeded. Until now. A month away from 49, I fear that my body is changing. There are a few men with super slim physiques that are part of their DNA, but most men acquire Permabelly of some size once middle age hits. I don’t hear men talk about it. They continue to sit shirtless in summer chairs, swigging from a six-pack and downing Doritos while dreaming about the thick slabs of steak that will sizzle on the barbecue in a matter of hours. (I cannot relate to anything in the previous sentence.) I cannot stomach the notion of Forever Flab. It is simply not an option.

Part of it has to do with being single. Many of us let go a bit when we’re settled into a relationship. He loves me for my mind, not my midriff. Yes, I can recall a time when I was partnered and I had ten—maybe eleven—extra pounds to shed. How repulsive! It is hard to fathom. Five is plenty.

Not that I know it is five. That’s just what I’m going with. I never weigh myself. I went through years of trying to add muscle and then panicking over the increase on the scales, only to resort to radical dieting, thus losing all muscle I’d sought to gain. When you struggle with body image as much as I do, the mind lacks any sense of logic. I now go with what I see in the mirror rather than what shows on the scales. And what I see is a stomach making a spot-on impersonation of Jell-O.

I don’t just see it; I feel it. As I write this, I know it is there. My gut doesn’t have the grace to hang tight. It sits over my waistline, even on the shorts that I bought two sizes larger than I ever wanted. The larger size was supposed to keep things in check, create a laissez faire scenario as I grab a belt to prevent the saggy look.

As a single guy, first impressions matter. I cannot attract a man with amusing anecdotes about the life of Miley or an insightful analysis of matters in the Middle East if he is distracted—repulsed—by my belly. And, more to the point, I cannot confidently interact with a desirable single gay man (should one ever surface in my present Never-land) as long as I am repulsed by my belly.

Sometimes it takes repulsion to get a person to take action. That would be great if I weren’t already working furiously to trim the fat. (Okay, I suppose I should have done without Saturday night’s pint of Ben & Jerry’s, my once a month indulgence of my favorite food.) I will carry on with the extended workouts and continue feasting on non-fat cottage cheese each and every freakin’ lunch. I shall continue to deceive myself into thinking that spooning a cup of frozen apple juice is almost as pleasurable a dessert as Cherry Garcia. And I shall hope upon hope that in the days, weeks (months?!) to come I will finally clear the five-pound hurdle. I need to know that it is still possible.

CATCHING UP...

One common piece of advice I read about attracting an audience to a blog is that you have to post regularly. I read it, but I don't follow it.

I could post more frequently. Perhaps you'd be amused over my (unsuccessful) attempt to tame the beastly hedges on my side yard. Maybe you'd join me in scorning my neighbors who allow their children to deposit their sun-faded Fisher Price toys for weeks on end in front of my house. I'm sure I could rant for several hundred words about that. (A Tweet won't do.)

But this is a blog about being a foolish single gay guy who moved to a rural area (not rural enough--see neighbor comment, above) and naively thought a soulmate would miraculously appear on a hiking trail. Alas, all I have to show for my wilderness walks are scratches on my legs from blackberry branches and an almost recovered twisted ankle. My gayness goes into hibernation for extended periods; hence, no posts.

I did rent a condo in Vancouver from my ex for the past ten months. (Troubling words in preceding sentence: from my ex. More on that in a moment.) With a foot in the city, I planned to reconnect with old friends, dine at the hip restaurants du jour and mingle during intermissions at the theater. Shine that spotlight on my naivite once more. Old talk with old friends proved stale, French bistros are all the rage (this vegetarian cannot live on a baguette and Chardonnay alone) and I passed on Carol Channing reading "The Vagina Monologues". Missed opportunity?

Truth is Gay in the City gave way to Slave to Work. At the end of a long day, I didn't feel like trekking to 4th Avenue to wait forty-five minutes for a table and a bland, twenty-dollar pasta primavera. It was easier to stay in and whip up my own mediocre meal, cutting down on dishwashing by eating from the pot. There, I admitted it. I have not grown much from my college slacker ways. At least the utensils aren't plastic anymore.

I have more time in the summer. My ex knows that. Why shouldn't he rain on the emerging sunshine? A minor "disagreement"--I was choosing to take my dog to work the next day instead of dropping him off at my ex's mother's--led to a flurry (and fury) of text messages demanding that I vacate the condo ASAP. Oh, he recanted the next day, but I'd already loaded the car and begun hauling my stuff back to the boonies. Exes don't change. Naive again? No. Plain stupid. Lesson learned.

So my big gay renaissance never materialized. Not much to blog about. Maybe later today I'll take the dog for a walk through the local trails and look on the bright side. In another month, the blackberries will be ripe. In the meantime, I can surf the internet and figure out how to make jam. No more leftover pasta in the pot for brekky. Progress.