I did it. I faced my fear.
I am now officially a man who takes off his shirt in yoga class. I didn’t ease into with a tank. I just went for it. 100% shirtless.
No more cotton to catch my drips, drops and drizzling diaphoresis. (It means sweat. I looked it up in the thesaurus.)
So what I’m basically saying is this, if you’d like to come analyze the details of my nipples, join me for a yoga class. You’ll have a full hour to sneak indiscreet peeks at a shirtless me. I will gladly welcome your eyes to focus in closely and stare. I’m no Matthew McConaughey, but I’m here for your viewing. Watch as my pale white skin and harsh golfer’s tan beads up with little tears of hard-earned yogi perspiration.
Take a deep breathe in and take note of the splattering moles around my chest and back area. Go ahead, neighbor, yes you, the one with the eyeballs. Get lost in the curious disgustingness that will surely occur when you spot the funky red blood blisters bulging from my belly. Here I am exposed, looking like a diseased piece of chicken, or a man who simply needs routine dermatologist check-ins. Wearing only what is necessary by law in the state of Florida, covering my groin and loin-thighs with a new innovative material from Lululemon.
And hey now, how about those hairs splitting off wildly from one of my big brown beauty marks? Notice how I occasionally manscape, but it’s been at least 2 or 3 weeks, my apologies for the lengthy stubble growing across my frontal husk. When the teacher reminds you to focus on your breath and close your eyes, this is your time, the perfect opportunity to go in for a shameless gawk.
Fine, if it helps you balance, go ahead and use my skin imperfections as your focal point. Now find your way into up dog and peep that underwear I’m sporting. You like that faded blue elastic band rising above my shorts that says Champion? I’ll have you know I got those boxer briefs from Costco in a multi-pack with a medley of other blue fabrics. Hell yes, I’m feeling like a Champ. In fact, I’m feeling a little more like Tarzan, working my right foot into tree pose. Shirtless sweaty man, stand tall, like tree.
Now, I’m going to make a completely reasonable request that the teacher touch my slippery, mole skin while I practice my handstands. Don’t worry about him, he’s a yogi, he can handle it. And make sure you watch my mammillas while I stretch into an inversion. Sometimes they shrink.
Let out your ooooomm. Last chance to ogle all up on all my funky skin features.
And time for me to take a breath, and realize I'm really overthinking the whole shirtless situation.
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Why the hell did I just write this? I can kinda answer that.
For a couple years now I have practiced yoga, proudly, and for almost stubborn reasons I remained shirted. Donning various cotton solid-colored tees, usually a high quality Kirkland Signature, personalized with a bold red sleeve tag to absorb my hard earned yogi perspiration.
Yes, I might even say you’re reading the words of a man who thought of himself a little above taking off his shirt. A man who is never over-thrilled to just rip it off. In fact, I’m a bit nervous about going bare. I’m bashful and even a little bit of a coy fellow when it comes to giving you visibility of commonly covered up areas. Throughout my life, I might be the first guy to dip his toes into the water, but I’m usually a little hesitant about popping off my top, and usually last to get his head wet. But here, in the human oven that is hot yoga, it’s completely necessary.
I had been shy, not wanting to be judged as sexually aggressive, or like I was taking advantage of an opportunity to display myself in a room which is usually dominated by ladies in skin-tight pants and sports bras. To me a bare chested dude in yoga was there for horny and stereotypical male reasons. You’ve judged the types, those pompous ponyboys who post up pretending to be low-key flow-finders in the back row, but they’re just spending the class pie-eyed and gawking down the rows of yoga butts arching in the air, storing up a trough of self pleasuring material to go fantasize about later in the evening. Pigs. Perverts. Porno-lovin pumpkin fuckers.
My reasons for going shirtless are simply practical. I have told myself while looking in the mirror that this is not because I’m vain. I’ve simply had enough of trying to master the yoga maneuvers in a sopping wet shirt. Going down-dogging and cat-cowing, looking like a baggy wet mess — no more, I tell ya! I’m tired of walking out of the class like I just jumped into a pool of my own sweat.
So I took a breathe and did it one day. I went shirtless. Warrior three. Nipples free. — Namaste. Nips out to play. And I’m not sure what it means, but it earned me another wink from the Russian girl in a white leotard. This is real life, not a soap opera. What’s with the winking? Is there a cultural misunderstanding I’m missing? Now, I’m wondered… do I look any good?
To my credit, I do have a couple of stomach shapes and I take decent care of myself, but I bet my golfer’s tan and faded blue elastic Champion underwear band dilutes any sexiness I had going for me.
And ugh. My moles… and those little red blister bubbles. Someone schedule this guy an appointment with the skin doc. There are wise reasons along with dermatologist warnings why my skin should remain sheltered in sunny conditions. And crap, I should have manscaped first… is that there hair growing out of my moles?
You see, the truth is, I am a bit self conscious in my skin. Sir Austin Powers would have a field day pointing sticks at my back and making guacamole and moley-mole sauce. You could doodle my moles and fill up a Moleskine journal, cover to cover.
This complex isn’t anything new. When I was younger, I hated being on any sort of skins team. I’d get irritable and itchy without a shirt. I would never understand this, there’s nothing but air to make me itchy! I’m just more comfortable in a shirt.
But yoga is a different game and because of it’s unbearable heat, I’m going bare. From now on, it’s off with the shirt.
So, if you’re scared of showing off your nipples too, I hope you find comfort in knowing the more you do it, the less you’ll sweat it, I mean you’ll stop caring, it’s just comfortable and easier and nobody cares...
ps. here's an idea: I feel like there’s a fun opportunity to play a joke on someone… I imagine a man taken in for his first experience in a hot sweaty yoga room. He takes off his shirt which cues everybody else to loosen up and follow suit. Men, women, goats too. But the rest of the class doesn't stop there, they're striping down to birthday suits. Suddenly he’s a shirtless man in a room full of butt naked people. The yoga teacher? Full ass nude and continuing class with no signs that this is out of the ordinary. At this point, he’s either really uncomfortable or it’s the most glorious moment of his life. And then a naked Russian girl winks at him. And everyone starts farting. (Ok. Maybe the farting is too far.) But someone should do it and film it.
There is a light in you, and two nipples on me.
Namaste.