The Dad Bod Era
It’s not a dad bod; it’s a father figure.
T-shirt slogan
I’ve reached that age where the TikToc set occasionally look to me to provide some degree of guidance and wisdom. Totally understandable, of course. It comes with the burrowing crow’s feet and the Sean-Connery-esque Hunt-For-Red-October beard (hey, it’s my story). I don’t necessarily have any grand notions to share; they just assume I have some quixotic awareness about the ways of the world. But in my case at least, the journey of becoming something of a Father Figure has had one weighty side effect, a belt-loosening phenomenon that I can no longer ignore.
The onset of the Dad Bod.
Sheltering-in-place has convinced me that the Dad Bod is refreshingly real. So, too, is the fact out local 24-Hour Fitness has been shuttered since March. The alphabet soup of California wildfires manifesting a virtual ring-of-fire around the Bay Area hasn’t help either: not only were the local hiking trails closed for several weeks, the smoky air transforming Moraga into the 1970’s version of Los Angeles made the idea of getting an outdoor cardio workout equivalent with lacing up you sneakers before placing your lips firmly around your car’s exhaust pipe.
There’s also that pesky, unhealthy obsession with cookies and potato chips, my COVID comfort foods of choice (tip of the day—a good Syrah pairs well with Ruffles). I watch what I eat, sure, but only because the four main food groups of pizza, French fries, burgers and ice cream should be thrown down with your eyes open.
Sketched on an anatomical canvas of heart instead of muscle, my single-ab, little-extra-around-the-middle physique conveys the mantra of not taking my AARP-self too seriously; a laugh-at-everyone-including-myself sense of humor, a down-to-earth mentality that says the grinding-their-way-through-life Everyman and Everywoman is worthy of my time and respect; a healthy appreciation for finding balance in life, where the size of your house or bank account is a considered a silly way of keeping score. Call me sanctimonious if you wish, but I’ve always kept the faith, and in these pandemic times I’m letting my doughy anatomy do the talking.
Having a Dad Bod does not mean your dude is a dud. It means he’s strong-willed and able to meet the evolving demands of what it means to be a man. I can now whip up a delectable chili recipe or mouth-watering pasta sauce without destroying the kitchen. And you know what makes a Pretty Blonde’s heart skip a beat these days, besides watching Mathew McConaughey take off his shirt? Seeing her Dad Bod stud load the dishwasher.
Life is about balance, and so is the Dad Bod. My Dad Bod idol is Winston Churchill, the father-of-all-father figures who lived to the ripe old age of 90 despite smoking and drinking to excess and lifting nothing than a glass of whiskey. There were issues he cared deeply about and thought were worth fighting for; you know, like saving Western Civilization. His waistline? Fahgettaboudit.
Besides, life is too short not to order dessert.
Enjoy the Labor Day weekend.