Ah summer. What a glorious season it is. A time when the oppressed exhibitionists who’ve suffered all winter long can now be free and show us all what we’ve been missing. What an interesting anthropological phenomenon to witness: like some global game of meteorological strip poker, you can actually see another item of clothing coming off for each increase in temperature. My main issue with this horrendous–yet again seemingly unavoidable–social travesty, is the bare-chested mammal known, and I use this term loosely, as “man”. Though I am fully aware of the Garanimal-sized answer to these sweltering temps favoured by our gal nudists, micro-minis and rayon tube tops are just not anything I can deal with today. So let’s do ourselves a favour and take a gender-specific approach to these public assaults on decency and save ourselves a trip to the drugstore for some Peptol. Although truthfully, I might have to guzzle some anyway: just one glance out my window is enough to keep my stomach turning for days.
So yes, men. Sweaty, out of shape, shirtless men. Take a look around you today, they are everywhere: mowing lawns, walking dogs, sitting on plastic lawn chairs, and my personal favourite, strutting down the road carrying their shirt. Ah, yes, I see, you had a shirt but you took it off and now I will have the long awaited pleasure of devouring your Adonis-like body with my hungry eyes. Well sorry Baby, but that look you see in my eyes is pity; pity at your desperate cry for attention, and yes, a little revulsion too because while your pants my be resting comfortably (I’m sure) around your thighs, your underwear is halfway up your back, and that blinding white chest doesn’t make the best impression when contrasted with your t-shirt-tanned forearms. 
The fact that I even need to explain that look in my eye is half the problem. God forbid the man be slightly good-looking or remotely fit, because if he is then look out. You’ll be the one left to decipher the look in his eye when you check your review mirror and catch him smiling knowingly to himself. It makes me want to back up my car, force a smile, and tell him what he’s surely dying to hear:
“Um, hi, I couldn’t help but notice you. You look like a really great guy, I mean, I don’t know you at all, you could be a psycho-killer, but what the hell, you do have one smokin’ bod. I never do this, but something about the sight of your naked torso has pushed me over the edge of propriety and I feel free to let go of my inhibitions. Let’s go back to my place. Thank you for this opportunity.”
Well okay, that might be a little sensationalized—no guy would dream of a woman using the words “propriety” and “inhibitions”. At least no guy who’s publicly shirtless outside of gym class or the beach that is.
Is this honestly what is going through the minds of these men? And have we reached the point in our society where a man can peek at the thermometer, reassure himself that yes, indeed it is hot, and opt out of clothing? Perhaps their common sense is seeping out along with their perspiration. Regardless of the inevitably sad justifications for the manly seasonal striptease (and I’m sure there are many), there are a couple pearls of wisdom these apparently quick-to-overheat gents need to permanently log away:
One: you look extraordinarily ridiculous strolling around the street dressed in your Sunday morning “bacon and eggs with the paper” uniform.
Two: you still look a fright no matter how many other shirtless men there are out there; you will not win by majority but rather lend evidence to decline of mankind.
Three: that look in our eye is NOT lust, it’s confusion, repulsion, laughter…take your pick really.
And Four: It’s never THAT hot.
Kate
