Am I A Dickhead For Running Shirtless?
The weather is finally nice in New York City. It was a long, cold winter that seemed to clutch at our collective consciousness with icy fingers, bullying spring into taking the year off completely. But we finally have some warmth and sunshine. On my street yesterday, the flowers were finally blooming and people took to their stoops for cocktails and people-watching. When I saw the gallery, I decided it was finally time for my first topless jog of the year. There comes a certain point in every man’s calendar where he has to give the people what they want.
I threw on some headphones but didn’t start my music because I feed off the inadvertent gasps and “ohhhhh my’s” of those witnessing Michelangelo’s David come to life. I left my door and took off at a slow trot to allow my neighbors the long drink at the fountain that they deserve. After a few steps, I realized that my ignorant block was much more interested in their conversations about who fucking cares than studying the human body in its most chiseled form. These morons wouldn’t know the second coming of the Messiah if I’d run across the Hudson. So I picked up my heels and headed for the Hudson River park running path, where I’d be surrounded by inferior beings whose desperately uncoordinated strides and jiggling fat rolls would elevate my stature by comparison. You can legitimately hear their knees screaming under the offensive task of bouncing a wagon of winter calories down the path. It’s shocking how many people think they can start prepping for beach season just two days before Memorial Day weekend.
I hit the river and turned south, passing tennis and basketball courts that were occupied by people of contrasting races. To my left, twenty-somethings were set up on patches of grass no bigger than a hot tub. They sat crosslegged on beach towels, puffing on weed pens and sipping from bottles of rosé, desperately trying to conjure a whisper of nature in our concrete jungle. Some cute girls were sitting alone, reading books with their shirts tucked up into a knot because their doctors warned them of the perils of Vitamin D deficiency. I saw one girl reading Anthony Doerr’s “All the Light We Cannot See” and considered stopping for a moment to explain the book to her. But I kept jogging because girls who read don’t like it when men explain books to them because they think they know everything already. There’s a reason I only date illiterate women.
I arrived at Battery Park City and turned around for home. By now, I had a nice sheen of sweat going, but I wasn’t red or heaving yet. This is the perfect zone in your run where onlookers assume you’re in the best shape in the world because you make it look easy. Around three miles, it’s a battle for me because I accelerate because running makes me need to use the bathroom. But I had a mile to enjoy before that crisis set in, and I was going to milk it for all my parents’ worth. I was cruising, breathing evenly, sharing long looks with the occasional babe who couldn’t help but throw me an ocular patdown.
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But I started to sense that these looks were of the disapproving kind. I saw more than a few wrinkled noses, dismissive eyebrow raises, and prep school faces. These negative reactions filled me with rage, and the adrenaline loosened my rectum and brought on the jog pinch sooner than I had anticipated. Why were these people disapproving of me? It couldn’t be my body because it’s a gift.
I hit mile three and was pounding down the pavement, looking for a Starbucks but knowing I couldn’t use it because I was shirtless like a complete fucking asshole. It dawned on me that these judgmental haters might make me shit my shorts simply because they wanted me to cover my obliques out of jealousy. Thankfully, I made it home just in time.
But it made me wonder… am I an asshole for running shirtless? I really prefer it, honestly. It’s much more aerodynamic, I get a little sun, and I avoid the Andy Bernard nipple-chafing that leads to embarrassing vaseline circles at work. In New York City, both men and women are legally allowed to walk the streets topless. But I know there’s a difference between what the law allows and what the people uphold.
Please direct your responses to Sculpted@gunshow.pecs.