Cover-up: Beach bod edition

Apologies. Let’s begin there. No one should really have to see the above picture. That’s the point. Topless seems self-indulgent, an attempt to parade confidence that often – to the subjected viewers – seems misplaced.

Men who look to be transporting an afghan rug on their back; fellows who possess man boobs that should be measured as size-long; beer bellies that explode forward with the power of a luger; or the conclave chest offered up to suggest physical archetypes don’t matter. We all know it when we see it. Not everyone is a Men’s Health cover model.

For purposes of today, the topic covers only the male form – not wading into the issue of female toplessness. Not out of prudishness, but a preference to contain comment to experience known first-hand and I am lacking any experience as a woman (save that one time Dressing Up as Madonna and lip syncing for United Way in high school).

This incredulity as to why so many men feel the need to throw off the fabric yoke is long-standing. But of late it has come to mind more frequently; specifically while running and also practicing yoga. “Put on a shirt,” the inner voice screams.

Part of the problem is yours truly has never had a ‘beach bod’ – ever. There is the scrawny kid with chicken legs, followed by the ‘belly hits the water about 30 seconds before rest of body’ phase and then there’s the scrawny adult with pipe cleaner arms.

Back in the scrawny kid era, there was an attempt to move from the pre-Charles Atlas look (kids, go to Google for explanation, we’ll wait) and into the brawny category. Off to the gym, sweating to lift light weights and seeing glistening bodies encased in Lycra admiring themselves in the mirrors. But the one fellow who took pity on the skinny nerd was clad in grey sweats – top and bottom.  The only clue to his strength was the accumulated discs on the barbell. Dale, it turns out, was a serious bodybuilder; not Mr. Olympia calibre but a competitor around southern Ontario. So, the obvious question for a teen, looking for muscles to show off, to guy a like Dale: why aren’t you putting these dudes to shame? His answer, remarkable in its simplicity: ‘I don’t do it for them, I do it for me.’

That has stuck with me. And now it makes more sense than ever. Finally getting fit was for me. But even as the weight drops and vigour increases, the desire to rip off the top à la Hulk Horgan remains foreign.

Putting aside my aesthetic aversion to no shirts in public, there are practical reasons as well to cover up that beloved beach body.

When running, a shirt is handy to wipe sweat and useful if a tumble is taken. It also prevents any unintended blindness due to the sun reflecting off the white. Will acknowledge that avoidance of a farmer’s tan is good, so sleeveless shirts are appropriate.

At the gym, a door not often darkened, it keeps the sweat off the equipment and makes it a more pleasurable experience for all sharing the space.

Yoga is a more perilous area to wade into to. The studio where I practice has a healthy dose of male practitioners. Many hold a flexibility that fills one with envy; but many also practice without a shirt. When doing slow flow, there is a lot of holding and staring – having the eye trained on a patch of pasty white or intricate ink designs is unappealing to me. Again, a sleeveless shirt allows freedom of movement and mopping of perspiration. Maybe I sweat more than others.

Now, maybe the antipathy towards those not wrapped up is because in spite of shedding 70 pounds there remains a bike-sized inner tube layer of fat that refuses to disappear. That skin had been stretched so far – think ability to show movie on it – that it rebuffs all attempts to reveal the abs underneath. A horrible cross to bear, I know. Sympathy not expected.

Which is not to say shirts should be stapled on and never removed except for bathing. Showing off the body versus enjoying the moment: therein lies the difference.

The above picture was taken in a plunge pool in the Dominican. Swimming in the ocean and pool was done sans shirt. Lounging with a rum and coke was also done shirtless. However, walking back to the room or heading for brunch saw a t-shirt slipped on. Out of respect for fact not everyone wants to see too much of this body.

It is possible there is a little bit of the prig coming to the fore here; Europeans have a much different approach to highlighting the body, usually involving very small swimsuits that appear more torturous than pleasurable. That was on full display in the Dominican.

Maybe it would be different if young and buff was reality, instead of old and trifling as the above photo attests.

So, as the inner voice wanders into the real world, a final word to all those men who want to share the physiques they believe to be fabulous – don’t. Remember, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.