The Shadows Beneath this Epidermis

I’m hiking shirtless in St. George on a 100-degree afternoon. I'm back in this southern Utah town for the first time in eleven years, returned like a boomerang atop ruddy Dixie Rock which overlooks the city below. My Couchsurfing host led me up here during one of the first stops of my 9-month “Running To” road trip around North America. I smile at the memory.

There’s something glorious about seeing epic, beautiful places for the first time, but there’s something particularly magical about returning to those epic, beautiful places. The more improbable the return, the more magical.

I mean, St. George? Of all the inconspicuously glorious places to relive.

Isn’t that the beauty and utter tragedy of traveling in this life? You might be back one day — and you may never again return.

An older woman, surely at least in her seventies, sits with a floppy hat and shades drawn on a lawn chair atop Dixie Rock. Not a care in the world. I want to be her when I grow up.

I’m shirtless because, firstly, southern Utah is no joke in mid-August. My entire week across the state will see afternoon temperatures regularly hitting 102, 103, 106. I'll aim to do most of my hiking before noon this week, but I also won't sacrifice my limited time in certain cities and parks as I venture around the state.

Case in point: my one afternoon in St. George – even if it's quite hot.

But “quite hot” hasn’t prompted me to remove my top in the past. Particularly in public. Most of my life, I’ve clung to my shirt however unbearable the heat is. Because there's always been a more unbearable level of unbearable.

I was a runner in high school, so I was and never have been overweight. As an adult I’ve experienced what's known as “skinny-fat,” where my fat goes straight to my belly and sides while the rest of my body maintains a skinny, almost underweight appearance. Not muscular. The proportions way off.

Or perhaps that’s just my self-critical nature. I’m sure many of us find plenty “wrong” with our bodies despite nobody else's ever seeing (or saying) a thing.

I’ve probably looked pretty average most of my life. I imagine most people wouldn’t bat an eye if they saw yet another skinny-fat white boy’s shirtless frame hiking in the wild.

But body dysmorphia is real. Body image is a beast.

Despite the fears, I often feel this push to work out my demons far, far away from where anybody knows my name. Thousands of miles away from home, here in the privacy of a park in southern Utah, cut off from all social media for the week, with no pressure to “check in" live, a place to simply be, I remove my shirt.

I’d be far more reluctant to remove this article were I back home in Asheville, or otherwise somewhere someone familiar might see me. I’d feel their scorching eyes on me, hotter than the sun, either admiring me uncomfortably or outright criticizing me — my probably uneven proportions, my definitely uneven tan.

Because I hardly remove my shirt in public, or compromise with tanktops, I have such a farmer's tan. I'm insecure about all these graduating tan lines from my shoulders to my elbows to my wrists; all the skin between my neck and waist feels uncomfortably pale.

These tan line rainbows with my upper torso's paleness viscerally remind me of my lifelong battles with body image. It's not as bad as my acne-ridden middle school days, but I still dislike staring at myself in the mirror when I see my skin tone.

Honestly, one of my lower-end goals for this year's BiGTRiP in Utah, beyond dismantling the distraction of social media, is to even out my skin tone. And what better way to even things out than to hike completely shirtless under a clear Utahn sun – with no security blanket of a tanktop.

I am loaded up on sunscreen and electrolytes and deep breaths for the week.

Beyond this tangible physical goal, I am also hoping to grow more comfortable walking around in public without a shirt. That even if someone were to look at my shirtless frame and think, “Ew, that’s an unpleasant sight,” I could still move on with my life reassured that I will never see that person again. They’ll probably forget about my odious body in about thirty seconds anyway.

But what if they actually find my body desirable? That one is harder to stomach.

Throughout my week in Utah, I will be hiking shirtless almost every day, and every day I will feel my body clench whenever I intersect another hiker on the path. Thankfully, I’ll also be wearing sunglasses and a hat – accessories to mask my masculine insecurities. I will breathe easier after they pass, where I can be shirtless and free and uniquely masculine me once again. It gets a little easier every day.

I set a timer for a shirtless picture of myself atop Dixie Rock, and I think I look good – really good, actually. A thought I rarely have about my body. I’ve been hitting the gym harder and eating better than I ever have over the last year.

Honestly, I look and feel the best I ever have in 38 years. I have muscles now I didn't know I could grow. This makes me smile. Autoimmune issues aside, am I aging like wine? Not like fine wine, but maybe some upper-middle-tier Trader Joe's wine, at least?

I’m not on social media this week, but I face a future dilemma while staring at my newly acquired shirtless picture: do I post it after this BiGTRiP ends?

I take a few other shirtless photos throughout the week, and I feel simultaneously reaffirmed by my physical progress and also enslaved by my second-guessing, lodged like an arrow I can't remove. I'm assaulted by all the questions this social media age has spawned.

Do I owe it to myself to post these pictures? To be proud of my hard work? To delight in this body after so many years, decades, of feeling demoralized by it?

But what will people think? And what will I think about what people think?

Will they think I’m vain for posting these pictures? Or will I just think that they think I’m vain?

Will they think I’m ugly?

Or. Will they think I’m hot?

Will they like my photos? How many people will like them? How many likes is not enough likes, and how many likes are uncomfortably too many likes?

What if they don't like the photo? What does that mean?

Will they leave a comment? Will I want them to leave a comment? What if they leave uncomfortable comments? Should I just turn the comments off?

Will they unfollow me?

As an unmarried queer man of faith who doesn't anticipate ever having a sexual romantic relationship with any human, where can I receive a healthy spark of bodily affirmation that may normally come from a sexual romantic partner? Who will appropriately spark delight in my male body?

Surely, social media is not the outlet. Existing in Nevada and Utah for eleven days without social media, I feel free from the overthinking and constant comparison traps.

Despite all the good social media does, I often wonder whether we’ll look back on this age some decade or two from now and ask ourselves: Why did we ever think that was a good idea?

Returning home from Utah, I meet with a couple friends on separate occasions after not seeing them for several months. Each of these straight guys responds similarly to the sight of me. My body.

“Whoa, Tom, you got big,” one says while walking up to me – the first words out of his mouth.

“Dang, look at those triceps,” another says, reaching across the table to give my arm a playful squeeze.

The spark. I feel it.

I don't feel it often. And it feels really, really good.

It’s been a painfully slow 38 years. But I think I am growing more comfortable in my skin – skin with new muscles that has become more evenly toned, and growing more secure beneath this epidermis.

I am wandering across Utahn wilderness to discover more of my masculinity. With every step, I am becoming the old lady with a lawn chair atop a mountain with little to no effs to give.