Battle of the Bulge

We are a nation of self-love in the era of self-love. Entire industries have been built to short circuit the healthy social imperatives of shame and guilt, and entire generations have been convinced beyond any doubt they are each and all special. We no longer believe that we are simply deserving of the love of someone, we have now been led by teachers, parents and cultural leaders to feel as though we are entitled to the adoration of everyone around us - solely as a function of our own existence. One of the most troubling corollaries to this new axiomatic selfishness is the widespread preaching of mediocrity and laziness as model lifestyles and the acceptance of the effects such living has on the body as “natural” and even ideal.

It has become popular to blame the obesity epidemic in the United States on the peddlers of high-fat foods and high-sugar drinks, as corporate giants bent on making their profits on the backs our of own self-destruction. But it has gone without mention that there are celebrities, authors and scholars lining up to tell us that there’s nothing wrong with being a little overweight and lot indulgent. In the past two decades we’ve relentlessly pointed the finger at “negative media images” that have driven young men and women to eating disorders, performance enhancing drugs, and unnecessary plastic surgery, and created a backlash so severe that it’s suddenly become hip to have a “fat ass”, to “love your love handles” and to insist on being called a “foodie” instead of just a glutton. This widespread acceptance of the overweight population we have become is just as much at fault, if not more, for our burgeoning chubbiness than the fast food nation which often bears the brunt of the blame.

While still at law school, I recall the announcement of a seminar on campus for women called “Love Your Body”. Although I was not invited, the nature of the seminar seemed clear enough from their marketing materials. In an effort to avoid the deleterious effects that the “The Media Sexualization of Young Girls” was having on college students, the National Organization for Women was sponsoring large-scale group therapy sessions which would make gaining weight at college an exercise in learning to love one’s self, rather than the driving force towards an eating disorder. Funny thing was, all I could see running around campus were overweight undergrads in ill-advised and poor-fitting clothing who seemed extraordinarily content with their appearance. As it turns out, while the incidence of bulimia is approximately 1 in 5 and the incidence of anorexia is 1 in 10 amongst college students, 3 out of 10 college students are either overweight or obese, which is the same rate of occurrence as both of these eating disorders combined. Strangely enough, despite this fact, there was no competing “You’re Getting Fat At Far Too Young An Age” seminar scheduled on campus.

Tyra Banks became an international star as a runway and swimsuit model in the mid 90’s, riding a tall frame, a thin waist and natural good looks to the very top of the modeling world. She become the first African-American female to be on the cover of GQ, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue and the Victoria Secret catalog, arguably the trifecta of pop culture relevance as a beauty icon. Unfortunately, this fame simultaneously never provided a real impetus to obtain an education and did provide for a stable of enabling handlers and a platform and audience for her inane ruminations, culminating in her own talk show. As Tyra’s comfort grew along with her dress size, the rumblings amongst pop commentators began to grow louder about how she was “getting fat” – reaching critical mass when photographed in a unflattering one-piece bathing suit at an America’s Next Top Model photo shoot. This prompted perhaps one of the greatest self-righteous tirades in recent memory and empowered women nationwide to tell us all to “kiss their fat asses!” Fantastic.

So, to sum up Ms. Banks’ moral crusade in terms we can all understand: we have a woman who made literally hundreds of millions of dollars by being an idealized physical specimen: tall, thin and naturally pretty. As that naturally thin body ultimately gave way to a much more average or slightly overweight body, she’s devoted her energies, rather than to fitness and healthy eating, to justifying her physical change as not only perfectly natural but as ideal, and something all women should strive towards. Despite her changes, she still expects to be treated like a supermodel and hopes to inspire women the world over to not succumb to the pressure of being “super-skinny”. For what it’s worth, the distance between Ms. Banks’ body condition (at that time) and “super skinny” was particularly vast – and if it weren’t for her body looked when she was 17, she wouldn’t have a pulpit to preach from. What’s worse, the majority of women who watch Ms. Banks’ primary pop culture outlet (America’s Next Top Model) are under the age of 25. And if she was so happy with how she looked at that time, why did she immediately lose 25 pounds? I suppose we’ll just now be invited to kiss her newly skinny ass.

The “food” movement has never been more popular. Overeating, once vilified, has become celebrated with more television shows and movies than could possibly be referenced here. Competitive eating has become a sport with it’s own league and coverage on ESPN. Eating has become a hobby, celebrated in blogs and social groups, and more often than not, the involved eating is indulgent and gluttonous. We’ve decided that as long as our food doesn’t come in a Styrofoam box or paper bag, it’s an acceptable health decision. I’ve witnessed the term “foodie” which used to reference those people who took particular joy in exotic and flavorful cuisine come to be self-applied by people who simply can’t stop eating desserts and things with melted cheese on them. Unfortunately, giving something a cute nickname doesn’t stop it from being unhealthy.

Childhood obesity is an epidemic. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention warns that over the past three decades, the obesity rate has more than doubled for children ages 2 to 5 and for adolescents ages 12 to 19, and has more than tripled for children ages 6 to 11. Not only are we getting fatter, we’re making our kids fatter as our own attitudes for what constitutes a “healthy body” have become more and more accommodating. The self-love generations have come of age and are having children of their own, and we’ve never been fatter. To mark this downward spiral with celebrations of our fatness is the proverbial Nero’s fiddle. Only this time, the tune he’s playing is actually devoted to the flames.

On the heels of a blockbuster dystopian film that warns of the dangers of us all needing to be hyper-ideal physically, I’m mindful of the fact that there’s nothing healthy about a nation of people who endeavor to all look like soap opera stars. We’re all built differently, and there’s something wonderful about that. But we’re given to look to role models for everything from how to dress to how to act and from how to eat to how to look. We should, from time to time, try to take a step back to take a look just exactly what these models are trying to tell us. And to the extent we find that it is simply a rationalization of their own shortcomings and wealth-driven sloth, we ought to be able to tell them to kiss our own non-famous asses. Or at least stop short of puckering up.

Personal Space, the Final Frontier

In most matters, I'm not an ethnocentrist. I'm all for the melting pot that is the United States. The broad array of cultures that have been brought to our shores have contributed immeasurably to the success of America. The notion of requiring people to speak English only is laughably absurd to me, and decrying culturally-specific holidays, including foreign days of independence (e.g. Cinco de Mayo), as a loss of the American identity is just plain stupid. But there is one point of purely white-bread American custom on which I must insist. There is one decidedly red, white and blue rule of social conduct which appears to be of minimal importance to immigrant Americans which I'm afraid I must enforce. There is one thing that, no matter how much tolerance and cultural sensitivity is beaten into me, I will not budge on. And that is: stay the hell out of my personal space.

I'm not sure how the views on this have gotten so disparate between later-generation Americans and the rest of the world. And to be frank, I really don't care. I have no interest in why the older Latino women at Costco assume they can push their cart into mine with a disinterested aplomb or why the older Filipino man on the airplane claimed all the armrest real estate (and a couple of inches of my own seat space) on my recent flight out of Las Vegas with no more concern than had my seat been empty. I just want them to back off. I don't care about diplomacy when it comes to a stranger invading my personal bubble, I just want them to stop touching me. It is the ultimate affront to civility when the unsavory have a right-of-way simply because they don't care about whose space they're in, and no one else can stand having them in theirs. It's precedence via social leprosy - and I've had enough.

Edward T. Hall produced the most groundbreaking work in this field way back in 1966, in his seminal work The Hidden Dimension, which established the field of proxemics - the study of set measurable distances between people as they interact. According to Mr. Hall, the following are the standard distances for American culture:

• Intimate distance - for embracing, touching or whispering
  • Close phase – less than 6 inches
  • Far phase – 6 to 18 inches
    
• Personal Distance - for interactions among good friends or family members
  • Close phase – 1.5 to 2.5 feet
    
  • Far phase – 2.5 to 4 feet
    
• Social Distance - for interactions among acquaintances
  • Close phase – 4 to 7 feet
    
  • Far phase – 7 to 12 feet
    
• Public Distance - used for public speaking
  • Close phase – 12 to 25 feet
    
  • Far phase – 25 feet or more

Now I recognize that in the situations that provide the greatest opportunity for personal space violation - transportation, shopping, entertainment, etc., most of these distances are an impossibility, but I've always felt that one of the basic assumptions of agreeing to go into these situations with other people is that we'll do our level best to try and meet these distance requirements if possible. So why does it seem like cultural ignorance and age have become excuses to disregard this rule?

According to the foremost expert on the subject, the only good reason you have to be inside of four feet of me is if we're good friends, family or about get intimate. Four feet! Here's some news - regardless of where you're from, what God you pray to, or how long you've been on this planet, you're none of the above - and if you were, you'd know it.

In most matters I can tolerate the fact that we're becoming less and less gentrified. Hell, in some cases I even enjoy it. I may not like the fact that it's become completely acceptable to bolt a device onto the exhaust pipe of your Honda Civic so that I have to hear it four blocks away from inside my own car, but I do appreciate a good curse word now and then, and have never minded a nice bare midriff (muffin tops excluded). We've got to draw the line somewhere, and I'm ready to put right where Francis "Psycho" Saywer did in 1981. Any of you touch me, and I'll kill ya.

Okay, so maybe I won't go that far, but so you know, you're pushing me. You're pushing us. The whole tolerance crowd has just about had it. We're tired of getting out of your way just because the thought of you that close to us is revolting. We've grown weary of keeping our mouths shut when you plop yourself down close enough to us that we can evaluate the effectiveness of your last shower, despite there being plenty of room available. And we're fed up with your plaintive stare, feigning cultural ignorance when do something you know damned well is not o.k.

It's no secret that intolerance and hate are on the rise, especially as times get tough. For my part, I increasingly have to rebuff the forwarded e-mails and video clips from my red-state family and friends that increasingly target immigrants as the root of all of our evils. Quite frankly, their arguments are vitriolic and nonsensical. But, despite the victory for change and reason in the White House, these ridiculous movements are gaining momentum. And I fear that the root of this is a simple lack of respect.

Unlike my preferences in women's footwear, my disdain for abject douchebaggery, and my hatred of Notre Dame, my need for personal space is not a personality trait or social affliction. It is, as many social scientists have discovered, a deeply integral part of how we interact with one another. There is little need for us to speak the same languages, wear the same clothes or celebrate the same holidays, no matter if we're native, transplanted or visiting. But the space we give to one another is something else entirely. It is essential to our coexistence.

For my part, I'm still trying to fulfill my end of the contract. I didn't ram my cart back into the woman at Costco, and I didn't elbow the man next to me on the plane back into his own seat. I expect that I'll continue to simply fume and steam in relative silence, giving way and giving space, reducing my own proximate happiness for the blissful freedom of having my 18 inches back. But, I fear that banking on the impulse control of an entire nation who seems bent on the celebration of interpersonal violence is a really bad idea. The boiling point, if not yet reached, can't be far off. Perhaps instead, we can abandon the pursuit of our glorious individuality just long enough to stay out of each other's way. Or at least out of each other's space. A little breathing room may be just what we need to enjoy how wonderfully different we all are.

See also:

In Certain Circles, Two is a Crowd

Wikipedia: Proxemics

The Road to Happiness

There is a great deal of time and effort spent on the discussion of “finding happiness” – as though it were something you lost in your apartment or a small town in eastern Idaho that isn’t on any map. In these existential treatments, happiness is a creature of myth and legend, inexplicable in form and indescribable in function. In addition to the meandering and secret path that is alleged to lead you there – provided you’re willing to follow the advice of life coaches, talk show psychics and religious zealots – no one can really tell you what it’s going be like, only that you’ll know it when you get there. But this treatment of happiness always made me feel like it was no more reachable than the sunset; no matter how hard I tried, it never seemed to get any closer. As a I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve realized that happiness is not some far off and shapeless thing, and that, I’ve already found it.

There are only three things in my life that have made me so happy that I’ve cried. Each of which I’ve been reminded of recently. Which is not to say only three things have made me cry – hell, after a couple of particularly nuclear break-ups, I’ve been known to cry during movies, sad songs, and certain well-crafted beer commercials. No, these are the sort of shameless tears that result from a shameless and unexpected joy. And these things are happiness. Now, they may not be happiness for you, or they may even be – but I hope you find, after reading about these simple pleasures, you can recall those few things in your life that made you purely, unbelievably and ridiculously happy. And maybe after a return trip through or to them – you can tell you life coach to take their mantras and mottos, and put them where their aura doesn’t glow.

Dancing

There aren’t many things as universally fun as dancing, so I suppose now you think I’m going to regurgitate some universal platitudes about “dancing like no one’s watching” and then go watch a Hallmark movie and cry myself to sleep. Wrong. In fact, I always dance like there is someone watching; the more people that are watching, the better.

For reference, I was a pretty shy kid. Now, I wasn’t a quiet kid by any stretch of the imagination – but I was about as comfortable around the opposite sex as though they were heavily armed and I were painted in bulls-eyes. The thought of actually striking up a conversation with a girl I was attracted to made me anxious the point of physical illness, and I spent the majority of my youth so physically non-descript that even if I had immolated myself and run down the hallway, I wouldn’t have turned a head.

But, when I found dancing, everything changed. I was able to jump into a crowd full of strangers and perform. There I was, just being myself – my overly energetic and crazy self, and not only was it o.k., it was good. Suddenly, these strangers weren’t strangers anymore. We had created some sort of bond between artist and audience – and they would strike up a conversation with me. The pretty girls in the crowd also noticed, and their eyes always told me it was time to come up and say hello.

I remember working on my own and with other dancers on new, more challenging moves. I remember the newfound ability to simply laugh it off when I didn’t hit something just right, rather than beat myself up. I remember having a crew of guys who would go crazy when I’d hit something particularly cool, and who wouldn’t let anyone get in my face on a dance floor. I remember knowing I’d do the same for them. I remember hitting one particularly tough move I had been working on and barely missing for weeks; the bald joy of the moment, enjoying the private success of it with the few friends I had there, and the public cheers; and the tears that I was simply powerless to prevent – and that I’m not sure I really wanted to anyways.

80’s Rock and Roll

I really believe that rock had two revolutions, and always roll my eyes at those Baby Boomers who insist that I “missed” the golden age of rock and roll. Because as far as I’m concerned, not only did I not miss one of the two great eras of rock, I was a part of the better one. Rock and roll has always been part revel and part rebel. It’s grown ups singing about a good time and the good life, but it really belongs to the kids who don’t, can’t or won’t do the same. It was the good kids’ first taste of just how good behaving badly could be, and there was no better time to find that out than in the late 80’s and early 90’s.

It was hair metal, cheese metal, pop rock or whatever else you want to call it. It was the power bands of the decade before (e.g. Aerosmith, AC/DC) perfecting their sounds and generating stadium anthems that demanded rebellion and fist-pumping commitment to Hedonism and rocking for rock’s sake. It was also the American take on “glam”; bands whose androgynous big hair and make-up made KISS look positively manly. These rockers (e.g. Motley Crue, Poison, Def Leppard) insisted on couching their power chords and fast-paced drums with impossibly high-pitched lyrics and lyricists who always seemed, despite their decidedly feminine look and sound, impossibly bad ass.

I remember the open disdain my parents had for this music and the furtive way I had to listen to it. I remember the excitement it built in me, and the bigger life it promised that helped me break out of the orbit of my small town at 18. I remember not being allowed to listen to the records and the unimaginable prospect of actually attending one of the concerts that came through Denver.

Which I think is why, now, I never miss an opportunity to see one of these bands when they come through my town. I know it’s not the “coolest” thing to have front row tickets to see Extreme or Motley Crue with Aerosmith, or to fly hundreds of miles to see Def Leppard and Poison. And I know it certainly wasn’t cool to be crying through the first three songs in the front row of the AC/DC concert because of how impossible that would have seemed to a younger me. But I do know that signing along with thousands of my closest new friends to the songs that I used to sneak a listen to as a teenager, promising me the bigger, better life that I went out and found makes me forget just about everything else, except how to smile.

Navy Football

I am a sports fan. You can usually identify us by seeing if we’ll watch back-to-back and identical episodes of SportsCenter with the same sort of intensity as though it’s our cardiologist bringing back test results. But like many fans, there is one team in particular that turns us just plain crazy. There is one team for whom we have an irrational love for; a team we will defend like a family member and support like a first-born childe. Because at some point in our lives, we became inextricably attached to this team, and it’s as much a part of us as the fingers on our hands. For me, this is Navy Football – the original Blue and Gold.

It started, as you might expect, while I was a midshipman at the U.S. Naval Academy. There, attendance to home football games is mandatory for the Brigade of Midshipmen and one of the most memorable sights of those games is the 4,000 or so of us clad in our dress whites (or blues) and cheering together in the southwest corner of the stands. But, as much as a loved being a plebe (freshman) and taking the field to do pushups each time we scored, my love affair with Navy Football didn’t really begin until the end of my sophomore year, when I beat long odds to become the man behind the mask; our school’s mascot: Bill the Goat.

For two seasons, I had an all-access pass to all things Navy sports, including home and away football games (one in Ireland, even), and my passion grew to a fever. With the license afforded by the anonymity of the costume, my outsized personality was allowed to grow and flourish. I didn’t simply jump up for touchdowns, I jumped up, danced, ran around the field high-fiving fans and let the other teams fans have it. A bad call didn’t simply cause me to turn away in disgust, I stomped my feet, stirred the ire of fellow fans, ran down the field and gestured at officials. I didn’t simply cheer the battle on the field, I found the other mascot and made a battle of my own. Far from simply being a nickname given to anyone who ever donned the goat’s head, I was Navy’s biggest fan.

Although a few of my antics had to be curbed when I took off the costume for the last time, not much has changed from those days when it comes to me watching Navy Football. I still jump up and dance when we score, I still let the officials have it after a bad call, and I still hug strangers when we’re winning. And after 43 years of losing to them, I recall crying like a little girl when we finally beat Notre Dame two years ago. Then I went to find every Irish fan I could to let them know that the day of reckoning had finally come, and they’d no longer be able to count their date with Navy as an automatic win. Can ya hear me, Matt Couture?

* * *

In the past month, I’ve gotten to dance in front of a screaming crowd, see Def Leppard, Poison and AC/DC (again) live, and watch my beloved Navy Football team just about ruin Ohio State’s season (and in Columbus, no less). I didn’t cry at any of these events (more likely owing to my age than the intensity of the experiences), but I did laugh and smile and forget about all the other stresses and nonsense in my life. For a precious few moments I was young again, or perhaps young like I never was – carefree, blissful and alight. And for the myriad of suggestions I’ve heard offering a road to happiness paved with seminars, counseling and selected pharmaceuticals, I’ve come to find that road is actually best walked with dancing shoes, accompanied by a bitchin’ lead guitar, and paved with gold (and blue) bricks.

I Am Not Spartacus (and Neither Are You)!

I realize the risk I’m running by writing this. It’s one thing to wax poetic on the fashion tragedies of other men that I see running around and still try to maintain some air of masculinity – but it’s another to speak out women’s fashion. But after spending years as a male cheerleader and even longer as a dancer, I’ve given up on expecting my sexual preference to be obvious from the things I do.

It wasn’t that long ago that I finally realized why women spend so much time, money and effort on shoes. I remember the maddening mystery of it as an adolescent, a young adult and as a grown man. Back then, I could satisfy my own footwear wardrobe needs with three pairs – and if pressed, probably two. But once my hormones had calmed down to the point where I could finally notice something about a women besides the fact the she was female, I began to notice the details that made femininity so damned alluring. I certainly didn’t have anything even approaching a foot fetish (in fact, just writing that gives me an inexplicably cold chill), but I could finally appreciate just how great a great pair of heels was. I can’t imagine any practicing heterosexual male that doesn’t love beautiful legs. And the right shoe was the perfect ending to my favorite story.

Despite the exorbitant prices and monies involved, the trends in ladies footwear have always seemed to produce ever more flattering displays of legs, ankles and feet – even offering those unfortunate Sasquatch-footed girls with an opportunity to make their boats look a little manageably sized (I’m talking to you, Heidi Klum). I finally got it, and no longer wonder why Loubintons cost $800 (because they’re worth it) or why a shoe sale was such a big deal (because you can buy more of them for the same money). However, there is a current trend in ladies’ shoes, which has jumped the shark; something even more impossible to justify than skinny jeans, even more baffling than the collection of products in your bathroom, and the mostly widely adopted female fashion disaster since the crimping iron. I’m speaking, of course, of the “gladiator sandal.”

Before I get started, let me just say, I’m not so far up my own ass that I think that the women of the world (or even those locally for that matter) are choosing their shoes to impress me; or even to impress men, in general. I’m well aware of the fact that most of what women wear is done to impress other women. Case-en-point: fancy lingerie – because if we think you’re hot, we want to see you naked, and don’t care about the steps it takes to get there. So, if you love your Spartacus sandals, and your friends do, too, fantastic! But, I feel like us guys are often afraid to say anything when something you’re wearing just isn’t quite right. I mean, who are we (you know, the guys that can’t reliably tie their own neckties or match them to our shirts without your help) to criticize your fashion choices. You’re right, we’ve got no standing to tell you what to wear on your feet – but to extent it matters what we think – we think your Air Leonidas’ look ridiculous.

Honestly, I’m not quite sure whose idea this was, or why no one has said anything yet. But the proverbial emperor has got no clothes on. You paid fifty bucks for footwear that was designed 1500 years ago, and is a toga away from being a marginal party costume. It’s not like you girls don’t have options if you’re looking to show off your pedicure or aren’t in the mood for heels. Flip-flops are casual and worry free; and flats are comfortable and fun and neither of them make you look like you’re waiting for a chariot to come pick you up. And can someone tell me why these foot-worn monstrosities usually come in “gold” or “silver”? The only thing that you should be wearing in those colors is actual gold or silver. I mean, seriously, is there ever a good time for fake metallic print?

And as I sat down to write this, I realized, I’m not exactly sure what it is about them that makes them so absurd. On the one hand, they’re just not flattering. Ostensibly, one of the purposes of the standard women’s shoe is to make the foot look a little bit smaller. A gander through the history of women’s footwear bears this out as a common theme. There is an inherent femininity to a small foot. It’s dainty, and cute. Yet the current Maximus-style sandal craze does everything it can to make the feet look larger. Not just flat, but wrapped up in thin strings that on most girls, are tied up so tight that it looks as though they’re keeping your feet from being even bigger. On the girls who are tall and skinny enough (i.e. fashion models) to actually pull off a flat shoe as fashionable – their planks look big enough in these things to effectively ski on. There’s nothing hot about looking down at the end of bed as bodies are tangled together and having to wonder which bumps belong to you. And that’s exactly what we’re imagining when we’re seeing you wear shoes that it looks like we might be able to fit into.

And on the other hand, they look way too affected to be taken seriously. Listen, a bunny-themed corset is hot, but we don’t want to take you to dinner in it. And anything that takes that long to put on hardly gives the carefree, cute appearance you were hoping for. I mean, men as a general rule, are mouth-breathing morons when it comes to what you’re wearing, but we do know that laces that wrap around your foot a dozen or so times don’t just slip on. There’s only two ways we can look at these aberrations – you either take yourself way too seriously (and think that shoes that take twenty minutes to put on are ok), or you don’t take yourself seriously at all. Remember that kid in elementary school who insisted on wearing some element of his Halloween costume to school on days that were not Halloween (you know, like a cape or a mask)? Yeah, now that’s you. Congratulations, Caesar.

Finally, they barely qualify as shoes, and are the only item of clothing to come out of the Roman era that isn’t worn exclusively for frat parties. Doesn’t it feel silly to pull them out of the box and find that they consist of an eighth-inch thick leather sole and three or four long leather straps sewn to the side? Do they even come with instructions? Or at least a picture on the front of the box to look at (like a Lego set)? If you wonder in that moment if it’s really worth it – the money, the hassle and the discomfort – let me be the first to say: no.

For the most part, you ladies are far more capable at dressing yourselves in a flattering and fashionable way than most of us men will ever hope to be. Even the worst amongst you makes the majority of us look like we picked our clothes in the dark. But every once in a while, something completely absurd becomes a mania of sorts. All the sources of fashion advice that you have (magazines, television, friends, etc.) conspire and inundate you with an impossible amount of advocacy on behalf of a truthfully bad idea. And for the most part, we keep quiet – hoping it will soon pass, and knowing that, inevitably, you’ll find that little black dress, those black heels and that thing you do with your hair that makes us just want to touch it – and that all will be well. So perhaps it’s best I just sit back and wait for this to pass. But just in case it doesn’t, I’m polishing up my breastplate, helmet and sword. After all, once she’s got the shoes, all any gladiator girl really needs is a well-dressed gladiator.