WIL...
Boys have body hang-ups too, reveals Cosmos's guy spy Wil Anderson
I don't have abs, I have flabs. While some blokes have a six-pack, I have a keg, a cask of wine, a dozen Bicardi Breezers and a kebab on the trib home from the bottle shop. And when I take off my shirt I look three months pregnant, and the father is Colonel Sanders.
O.K, so maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. Actually the truth is, on the rare occasion I've been forced to do a couple of sit-ups, I've been pleasantly surprised to discover I possess quite a good set of abdominals. They're just well hidden beneath a thick layer of camouflage fat. My gut's like a Kinder Surprise - there is a lovely treat inside, but you have to get through a thick layer of chocolate first.
To be honest, I've never really been concerned about my body image. I mean, my idea of salad is not throwing away the pickle at McDonald's. But I think the main reason I've never cared much about my body is that in Australia, while women have been forced at every turn to diet, men have always been able to make fat sound friendly.
For example, "love handles". Has there been a more misleading name for something since Australia's Funniest Home Video Show? The only thing they express your "love" for is buckets of deep-fried chicken. I've certainly never seen a Hallmark card with the poetic inscription, "Roses are red, violets are blue, I'd like to grab your love handles, and use them to ride you."
Also, Aussie men don't have a fat stomach, they have a cute beer gut. Of course, if they called it what it really is, a sitting-on-the-couch-eating-a-pie-and-a-packet-of-cookie-dough-while-watching-the-footy-gut, it wouldn't sound as cute.
So like I said, I've never really worried much about body image, feeling reassured by illustriuos tomes like Cosmo that the opposite sex is deep enough to judge me not just on my looks, but on my personality.
But lately all that has changed. I've found myself fretting about my beer gut and love handles. And it is the fault of one man - Travis Fimmel. For those who don't know Travis' work, he is the half-naked man you see staring down at you from the current Calvin Klein underwear campaign. The one where the byline for the ad seems to be: "Calvins - the most effective way to smuggle a boa constrictor through customs."
Yes, that's right, not only does Travis have rock-hard abs, but the man has a groin that looks like Steve Irwin should be poking a stick at it shouting, "Crikey! Check out this little beauty! This snake is the most dangerous in the entire world!"
When it comes to male body image, Travis has changed the rules of engagement. No longer is a nice personality or a good sense of humour enough. I have seen even the most hardened feminist put down her copy of The Beauty Myth to check out Trav's Sav, or as I like to call it, his Axis of Evil.
So I've decided it's time I got me some abs. Unfortunately, to me, rock-hard abs are like world peace - I think it's a great idea, but I don't have any idea how to go about getting it. The closest I've come to having an abdominal work-out is watching an hour-long advertorial for the Chuck Norris exercise machine, although admittedly I was a bit stoned and for the first 40 minutes was convinced it was a really boring episode of Walker Texas Ranger.
Next was the Ab-blaster, which mostly appealed because the ad sounded like it had been written by Dr Seuss. "You'll be an Ab-master, faster, by using the Ab-blaster!" What they don't mention is you have to exercise in conjuction with their dietary program of eating only green eggs and ham.
But it was the next ad that really got me in. It was for the Ab-dominator, which sounded like a new character from Arnold Schwarzenegger. I could just see myself working out and saying in a deep voice: "Hasta La Vista love handles... I'll be buff!"
With visions of abs I could grate cheese on and nipples I could use to tune in SBS, I was about to phone for my 352 easy payments. But before you can say "Matthew Perry sweats gravy", my eye was caught by a little warning running along the bottom of the screen: "Warning: individual results may vary!" Or translated into plain speak: "If you believe this, you better keep rubbing your big fat arse and hope a genie pops out, because that's the only way you're going to lose weight!"
So I've decided against buying an ab machine. In fact, I've decided against exercise and diet altogether. Instead, I'm going to go to Solways The Big Man's Store and buy the biggest pair of pants I can find and take a photo of me holding them. Then, when someone accuses me of being fat, I'll show them the photo and they'll be amazed at all the weight I've lost.
And as far as romance goes, I guess I'll have to trust that girls will appreciate me for my humour, my understanding of their emotional needs and my conversational skills. Warning: individual results may vary!
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