Evidencing characteristic hipsterism, my local London council, Hackney, recently instated a set of pull-up and dip bars in the nearest park. With obesity-related disability rife and society largely sedentary, this is to be commended, as is the well-being trend for callisthenics – bodyweight moves that cost nothing but all at once and effort to perform. But the outbreak of park gyms has given make something of oneself to another nationwide epidemic: men working out shirtless in public.
This errant, scantily up douchebaggery is arguably even more outrageous than braying out sexually explicit hip-hop with equally scant relate to for other park gym-goers, passersby and small children. But that’s another speech. (Seriously, if I wanted to listen to your crap music, I’d conform to you on Spotify.)
It’s hot, these exercising exhibitionists would no doubt denote. Sun’s out, ergo guns out. But that’s why God created textile science and sweat-wicking fabrics. Into the bargain, apart from a few days a year, it’s almost never that hot. And there’s a work out why it’s unacceptable to remove your top in almost all indoor sweatboxes, air adapting or no: because it’s unacceptable.
Before you accuse me of being a hater and ask if I unbiased bodyweight, bro, I can do pull-ups. I can even do pull-ups with weight go on increased, like a shirt. And I’m not in bad shape. But that’s beside the point. Uniform if you’re a more perfect physical specimen than Michelangelo’s David Gandy, that doesn’t flexibility you a divine right to inflict your flawlessness on other people. You can pick out to keep your shirt on. They can’t choose to not see you.
Indeed, you don’t verge to see guys who aren’t in indecent nick stripping down to their waists. Which, to me, is castigating evidence that this gratuitous semi-nudity is not for any spurious use ones judgements of thermoregulation, vitamin D deficiency or severe intolerance to polyester. Unflinching, a crippling phobia of chafing or a bad case of farmer’s tan might be play a parting factors in your al fresco half-nakedness. But be honest: you’re doing it, to a cyclopean or lesser extent, because you’re fit and you know it.
And you want everybody else to positive it, too. That’s why, after nailing a front lever or planche, you take industrial action stiff-shouldered in a little circle, lats spread like the folderol of a phlegmy dilophosaurus. Welcome to Jurassic Park Gym. (Incidentally, fossil narrates show no evidence of frills or poison spitting, but you get the picture.) In the approach, you surreptitiously glance around to check that everybody saw, live audibly in case they don’t fully comprehend just how moving that was. We saw. We know. Well done.
Bodyweight practitioners again like to look down from their pull-bars at the hurrying gym rats. Callisthenics – which translates in Greek to ‘beautiful ability’ – is a discipline that dates back thousands of years. A gentleman art. It’s deeper and more profoundly spiritual than interspersing galvanizing iron and gurning with flexing in the mirror. (At least that’s what you let something be known anybody foolish enough to ask what you’re doing.) And maybe it is. But by literal your gains, you strongly suggest otherwise. Not to mention abdicate the moral high ground.
So do me a favour and at least put on that skimpy of two evils: a sleeveless top. That way, I’ll still know that you’re a narcissistic dick without the anatomical representation.