GQ Hype

We’re calling bullshit on the ‘dad bod’

The dawn of the ‘dad bod’ trope felt like a new age of body acceptance for men, but, actually, it continued to suggest almost impossible targets of being both laid-back and vain. The Guyliner takes a look at how to navigate the dangerous world of torso tropes
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Do you remember where you were when you first heard the expression “dad bod”? It’s strange how evocative a term can be, can’t it? As your mind palace attempted to come to grips with the words “dad” and “bod” becoming adjacent, did you feel comforted or a creeping dread?

The dad bod movement was all about attraction – a sop for those of us who never matched up to the Greek gods prowling the gym or, even more devastatingly, had fallen into the age-old trap of “letting ourselves go”. The dad bod was sold as an empowering reassurance that even though we couldn’t grift as many Instagram likes as our chiselled bros, we still had it – with no confirmation of what “it” actually was.

As a body-confidence sell, the dad bod was, for me, the “singer-songwriter” of body types, a punt at authenticity but ultimately, as a body confidence sell, a failure. It was that old devil knocking at the door again: masculinity. Think of the dads and their bods slightly more lumber in the back of the truck, swigging a beer and prodding at burgers on a sizzling barbecue. The perfect marrying kind, maybe – real men, attractive yet unbothered by gym memberships and matcha smoothies. Galaxies away from the glamorous metrosexuals who, once finished preening in the mirror, will go on one date, come in for coffee, get the venti experience they were looking for then scoot off in search of other victims. Dads, in theory at least, are not like that – they’re reliable, stable, have only you in their thoughts. Just your average kinda bloke.

Women have endured classification and objectification by body type, mostly in the name of sexual attraction, for centuries. Men can never fully comprehend the scale of it; we’re playing catch-up, and online dating is speeding things along. Even the most rudimentary dating apps will ask your body type. The options are usually basic and rather subjective. How do you judge for yourself? Stop strangers in the street and read them the options? Ask friends who’ll lie and tell you what they think you want to hear? How pumped do you actually need to be to call yourself “athletic”? Does anyone even know what “stocky” means? And as for “slim” – I may see a great shapeless sausage in the mirror but perhaps others think me a sylph. Who’s right? And what does it all mean anyway? Bodies are unreliable witnesses and the state of yours may have no bearing on your lifestyle at all. You could be a wiry type who eats as much as they want yet can’t put on an ounce, or the guy who lives in the gym and screams at the sight of carbs yet has a glacial metabolism, or glandular issues, that keeps him stuck firmly at the same size.

Dating apps cannot see beyond the superficial, so unless you want to explain your thyroid in your bio, you must select an option and hope for the best. But if “dad bod” is the most evocative way to say you’re average, what’s your body type saying about you? And how do you classify it?

Take abs, for example, the six-pack, the “washboard stomach” of old. “Athletic” is the box you might tick here. What does it say to someone romantically interested in you? That you take care of yourself, yes, you’re committed to exercise and monitoring your nutrition, for better or worse – beware of fad diets and their effect on bad breath. To the casual observer, a six-pack is a sign you are active, a go-getter, the antithesis of laziness, but it could also mean you’re vain or someone who prioritises looks over a personality. Even if none of that is true and you’re simply genetically blessed enough to get ripped from 25 minutes of loading the dishwasher a week. It’s a minefield.

Some larger guys who aren’t ripped have to make do with their attractiveness being infantilised or fetishised. They are marked as cuddly, or the dreaded “jolly”, or branded a teddy bear, all to make them sound less threatening, more lovable – though you do also get hulks and daddies offering a slightly different proposition, but perhaps that’s a story for another day. Heavier guys often find themselves exposed to more blatant fetishising and patronising from other app users – either break out that hulk smash to make it clear you’re not taking any shit or, if you don’t care either way, take full advantage.

If you’re on the svelter side, there’s not much available moniker-wise unless you are, surprise surprise, a white gay man – then it becomes a whole periodic table, including delights such as twink, chicken and otter for the more hirsute among you. If you’re a skinny guy you could perhaps play up the geeky angle – even though many a nerd has discovered protein shakes; it’s all getting very Peter Parker out there – or perhaps take advantage of the fact every clothing house on earth designs with you in mind and reinvent yourself as a fashionista. You could be slim for any number of reasons – salad fandom, genes, whatever – but as I learned from my beanpole days, once their worship of your waistline subsides, things can get tired, and middle-aged spread is waiting to board its flight, so make sure your personality isn’t also on the lean side. (I tried and failed on that one, tbh.)

And don’t be fooled by the “dad bod” tag either… If anything, it was a vague equivalent to the “cool girl” myth. The dad bod cares just enough to look outwardly healthy, certainly lifts a dumbbell or two in the garage but wouldn’t collapse into himself when presented with a pizza; super hot but still attainable, a bizarre Zen-like figure, totally at ease with himself but not so at ease that his standards started slipping or, even worse, be became complacent and left you for good. Not the clearest of messages, after all, is it?

There is an upside to this categorisation – labels can help marginalised people, or those not “traditionally hot”, find each other – but your body doesn’t need a nickname or a title to be attractive. All it needs is confidence attached. Being who you are isn’t about fitting into a narrow set of searchable criteria, and it’s only when all of us – whether sculpted or scrawny, whip-thin or well-built – reject the idea of being a body type and embrace being an actual person whose body shape may or may not change, the better off we will all be.

But Rome wasn’t built in a day, so if you must assign yourself a body shape, don’t say you’re buff if the most weightlifting you’ve ever done is move the sofa to vacuum under it – in more cases than you would think, honesty is hotter than pecs.

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