My image of today’s “boys” (this, from the perspective of a borderline boomer in his 50’s).
The precise word that came to mind a few weeks ago while speaking with my wife was “doughy.” I noted that today’s young men are doughy. This was my general impression based on a very unrepresentative sample of young men I saw while on a sunny Sunday outing in March in nearby Long Beach at one of those communal foodie troughs that are everywhere. They are essentially “food malls” lined with pop-up or restaurant satellite stands where young, vital people congregate to socialize and commune while bowing at the altar of food as an ostentatious display of consumption.
The primary gathering drive of young people is to talk, check each other out, plume their feathers, which in pre-digital days involved dancing and booze and loud music but now finds a expression through emporiums of bountiful foodstuffs and shared gluttony.
I should preface that I do not get out often.
In fact, I didn’t get out much before the pandemic, so just imagine the nature of a homebody’s life in the post-pandemic dilapidated social architecture. From a state of minimal dearth to a state of even less than that. I don’t see many strangers. I definitely don’t see many young strangers. My exposure to youth culture is entertainment, and even that is seriously curtailed.
So my sheltered foray into an arena of the modern foodie cult was revealing. It’s been over a year since I’ve witnessed such a dense collection of pre-25’s.
As noted, this was a very unrepresentative sample of young male-dom being that most of the guys I saw were customers at a communal trough where feeding and food were the focus of ceremonial idolatry. It’s certainly to be expected that the predominant physiques would lean toward the not-so-lean.
And expectations were horribly and gruesomely exceeded.
What is the deal with these boys? They are all doughy. Plump.
There is no sinew to speak of. Do men even have veins any more? They sport oval torsos with protruding side mounds. They are a phlebotomist’s nightmare, what with their fleshy ill-defined arms designed for optimal non-vascularity.
Youthful vigor sedated by dumpy bodies and slip-slapping around in their sandals like apathetic slobs.
And this is why I don’t leave the house.