comfortable in my skin

The phrase "comfortable in his own skin" poses both a question and a goal for me. Why in the world is a person ever uncomfortable in something they can't take off? And how in the world does someone get more comfortable in their skin?

I used to be the high school soccer player who feared taking off his shirt during practice and who always kept hismember covered in the locker room like it was a KGB spy. It’s taken me fifteen years to get over that and feel as comfortable without clothing as in it. Why is that? Did I just need to grow up? Did I need to live in dorms where I saw a dozen naked guys a day? Did I need to build up my bench press? Did I need to lose my virginity, have a couple kids and realize my dick works just as well as the next guy's? Or maybe I just needed to get over it.

My path has taken me down each of those paths, and I can’t deny that each played an important part in the process. But I think that getting over it has been the most important. I just stopped caring. No don’t get me wrong—I care what I look like. I lift, and run, try to keep a tan, and watch what I eat. But after I’ve done all I can do, I just don’t care what people think. I not the fat guywho stopped caring what he looks like. I care what I look like immensely; I just don’t care what you think that I look like.

I remember the summer I started lifting weights like a wimp about to go on spring break and got the confidence to walk around my apartment (in front of my girlfriend) bare-chested. I knew that she loved me so she had to accept my hardgainer bod. That was big for me. When a knock came at the door and my neighbor stopped to talk to us, I didn’t run to put on a shirt. I just talked to her. Albeit, my arms were folded and I was as uncomfortable as a preteen girl the first day she got braces, but that day I began to force myself to show some skin. I believe firmly that we have to do something everyday that forces us into new and uncomfortable territory. That was my first step.

Now I’m to the point that I love to drive with my shirt off in the summer. My, haven’t I evolved? My truck’s AC is DOA, and when I have to drive an hour in ninety-degree heat, my shirt comes off. It’s a simple pleasure that only guys can enjoy, so until I develop man-boobs... off comes the shirt. Last summer I was in a small town and my fuel was on E. I started to do what I usually do at a gas station—put on a shirt so not to look like one of those redneck guys with four teeth and a Dale Sr. hat—when I stopped and thought: I don’t give a crap what people think. I know this isn’t a big deal to you who are reading this, but going into that gas station like a shirtless construction worker was a milestone for me. It made a statement: I am now comfortable in my own skin.

So am I there? I don’t know. I’m a lot more comfortable in my skin than I used to be. I also think I am much more comfortable than most people are. Maybe you think I need to put on a shirt in a gas station. That’s fine, but I don’t care what you think. Not caring has been the piece that has gotten me this far, and I’m more comfortable with where I am than ever before. I'm going to keep not caring.

-bo