From my exercise bike in the front row at the gym, I’ve come to
recognize long-time employees of the fitness center and a broad assortment of
people who come to work out at the same time everyday.
There’s a young woman who works in the gym office who always wears a
low cut top that puts dramatic emphasis on her breasts. They appear to be under
intense pressure, on the verge of leaping out. This is an important fashion
theme for her because she dresses that way every single day. And in case your
eyes aren’t automatically drawn to her cleavage she wears a sparkly necklace
that glimmers right across her breasts – like twinkling lights that calls out,
"Hey! Looky here!"
From my bike I have a clear view of her at her desk in the
office area. I notice because I am a heterosexual male. It's harder for me to
not notice than for others, perhaps because I lack self-control. Such is the
curse of the youngest, pampered child in any family. We youngest children lack
self-control because we were never much required to have any.
In fairness, I notice her as much as I notice the muscle-bound
dude who works out with a knitted cap turned sideways on his head (man, that
hat’s gotta stink!), and the anorexic-looking middle-aged ladies who hurry in like
speed walkers to jerk and pump on the elliptical trainers as if running in fear
from something the rest of us can't see.
I like to watch people.
Back to the woman with her breasts strategically on display. I
wonder what happened to those clever t-shirts with an arrow pointing up and a
line across the chest that read, "My eyes are up here." Time was when
women took offense at men who stared at their breasts. I'm not offended by
this gal’s fashion choices, I’m just an amateur urban anthropologist wondering how it
all got this way. Have we reached a time when a woman might wear a hat with an
arrow pointing down that reads, “My boobs are down there,” you know, just in
case men look in her eyes too much in conversation.
There is an experience that can temper the tendency to ogle
people's exposed bodies: Nude beaches. That sounds counter-intuitive, but trust
me, it’s true. Traveling in Europe during and just after my college years, a
couple times I found myself on nude beaches in the south of France. I’m a good,
body-conscience Hoosier, so kept my swim trunks on, but still it’s initially
disconcerting to find yourself on a beach towel that's touching the beach towel of a naked elderly man
or woman, and terribly distracting to buy ice cream from a naked, lovely, shapely, beach vender. But funny thing is, you get desensitized after a couple
hours until it’s just not so . . . well, interesting.
It’s kinda like opening a bag of freshly ground coffee. That
first whiff is intoxicating, but if you keep going back for successive snorts,
you can’t reproduce the initial rush. Your senses get satiated. It’s like that
with naked women on a nude beach. By middle of the afternoon, when a pin-up
worthy woman walks by, you’re shrugging, “yeah, whatever, big deal . . .” It’s
probably how Tom Brady feels about seeing Gisele naked at this point in their
marriage. And seeing so many nude people, people of varying ages and body
shapes, you start to think, “Hey, we’re all just human beings. This is
natural.” But being a Hoosier, I didn’t think it so much that I took my swim
trunks off.
Which
is perhaps why I’m constantly trying to hide my chest – what I call my “moobs.”
I joke about my moobs. I'm an opinionated guy and I find my opinions go down
better if the joke is on me fairly often.
You
see, sometime in my 30s my ass disappeared and repositioned itself on my
stomach and chest. It’s not an attractive body shape. I once had an elderly client tell me a story about a golfing buddy he referred to as, "No Ass." I asked why he was called No Ass, and this dear old man replied, laughing, "Because he had no ass!"
That stung a little. I told him flatly, "That's not funny."
If I gain 5 pounds, it’s
not on my ass or thighs, it’s on the front of my body. Which explains the moobs.
Which is why I’m at the gym. If I gain too much weight, I’ll have to wear a bro
to keep my moobs from flopping around. Guys with my body shape don’t wear
revealing, low-cut tank tops or those skin-tight shirts the muscle-bound dudes
wear that stretch tight across their pecs and biceps and six packs and
whatever else they’re always flexing in the mirror. Instead we wear male
maternity clothing – oversized t-shirts, fleeces and flouncy flannels.
And
a lot of black and vertical stripes. They’re slimming.
Which
is why I’m a little self-conscience when my t-shirt gets sweat soaked at the
gym. Maybe I should work out in one of those shirts with the upward arrow that
says, “My eyes are up here.”
View Kurt's Behind Noblesville Posts
Buy Kurt's Book, NOBLESVILLE
View Kurt's Behind Noblesville Posts
Buy Kurt's Book, NOBLESVILLE
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