Cinemorphosis

Tag: beach

  • When It Comes to Swim Trunks the Size of a Hotel Mint, Maybe Opt Out

    When It Comes to Swim Trunks the Size of a Hotel Mint, Maybe Opt Out

    The New York Times article, titled “Skimpy Men’s Swimming Briefs Are Making a Splash,” offers a solemn dispatch from the front lines of GLP-1 drugs, but I would guess that men—having exhausted every form of visible self-optimization—are now expressing their Ozempic-enabled slenderness via tiny, Lycra-clad declarations of status. We’re talking male bikinis, or what I like to call the ego sling.

    Apparently, if you’re dropping $18,000 a year to chemically suppress your appetite and shed your humanity one subcutaneous injection at a time, you deserve the privilege of looking like a Bond villain’s pool boy. I suppose this is the endgame: pay to waste away, then wrap what’s left in a luxury logoed banana peel.

    Luxury underwear companies, never ones to miss a chance to monetize body dysmorphia, are now marketing these second-skin briefs not as mere swimwear, but as power statements. To wear them is to say: “I’ve defeated fat, joy, modesty, and comfort in one fell swoop.”

    I’m almost 64. My aspirations remain high—ideally, I’d like to look like a special-ops operator on vacation in Sardinia. But I know my place. I wear boxer-style swim trunks, the cloth of the pragmatic and the semi-dignified. They’re not exciting, but neither is seeing a sun-leathered septuagenarian adjust a spandex slingshot over a suspicious tan line.

    There’s a difference between being aspirational and being delusional. The former means striving for vitality, strength, and energy. The latter means stuffing yourself into a satirical undergarment and pretending you’re a twenty-two-year-old wide receiver with a sponsorship deal.

    To my fellow older men: sculpt your body like it’s your spiritual obligation—but when it comes to swim briefs the size of a hotel mint, maybe opt out. Not every part of youth is worth reliving. Some of it deserves to be left in the chlorine-stained past, right next to Axe body spray and Ed Hardy tank tops.

  • When It comes to Swim Briefs the Size of a Hotel Mint, Maybe Opt Out

    When It comes to Swim Briefs the Size of a Hotel Mint, Maybe Opt Out

    Today’s New York Times article, titled “Skimpy Men’s Swimming Briefs Are Making a Splash,” offers a solemn dispatch from the front lines of GLP-1 drugs, but I would guess that men—having exhausted every form of visible self-optimization—are now expressing their Ozempic-enabled slenderness via tiny, Lycra-clad declarations of status. We’re talking male bikinis, or what I like to call the ego sling.

    Apparently, if you’re dropping $18,000 a year to chemically suppress your appetite and shed your humanity one subcutaneous injection at a time, you deserve the privilege of looking like a Bond villain’s pool boy. I suppose this is the endgame: pay to waste away, then wrap what’s left in a luxury logoed banana peel.

    Luxury houses, never ones to miss a chance to monetize body dysmorphia, are now marketing these second-skin briefs not as mere swimwear, but as power statements. To wear them is to say: “I’ve defeated fat, joy, modesty, and comfort in one fell swoop.”

    I’m almost 64. My aspirations remain high—ideally, I’d like to look like a special-ops operator on vacation in Sardinia. But I know my place. I wear boxer-style swim trunks, the cloth of the pragmatic and the semi-dignified. They’re not exciting, but neither is seeing a sun-leathered septuagenarian adjust a spandex slingshot over a suspicious tan line.

    There’s a difference between being aspirational and being delusional. The former means striving for vitality, strength, and energy. The latter means stuffing yourself into a satirical undergarment and pretending you’re 28 with a sponsorship deal.

    To my fellow older men: sculpt your body like it’s your spiritual obligation—but when it comes to swim briefs the size of a hotel mint, maybe opt out. Not every part of youth is worth reliving. Some of it deserves to be left in the chlorine-stained past, right next to Axe body spray and Ed Hardy tank tops.

  • Too Old for the Peacock Parade: Notes from a Miami Beach Exile

    Too Old for the Peacock Parade: Notes from a Miami Beach Exile

    From our apartment wedged beside a Hampton Inn in Miami Beach, the morning soundtrack is a symphony of honking horns—angry, insistent, and deeply personal, as if each driver believes their rage will somehow part the traffic like the Red Sea. I’m grateful we didn’t rent a car. Instead, we’ll wander on foot like civilized tourists and hop a trolley to today’s grand event: a five-hour tour of Miami’s greatest hits—its islands, its excess, and its curated chaos. Dinner and a boat ride are promised, which sounds either romantic or like a timeshare presentation with ocean views.

    For my family, it’s all new—the pastel Art Deco, the swampy opulence, the omnipresent scent of tanning oil and ambition. But for me, a native Floridian, this is a strange pilgrimage, a nostalgia trip filtered through Botox and Beats headphones. Miami hasn’t changed—it’s just doubled down. This isn’t a city. It’s a humid runway where the rich and surgically sculpted flex their flesh like currency. I feel like I’m attending a party I wasn’t invited to, wearing the wrong shoes and ten years too late.

    This morning, my wife and I walked the edge of the Atlantic, and I was struck by how different it smells from the Pacific. The Pacific has that cold, salty hush. The Atlantic? It smells lush—warm, sweet, almost suggestive. Like a pineapple cocktail is about to glide down from the clouds and whisper, “Welcome, darling.” There’s something in the air here that makes you believe life is one long poolside flirtation—until you check your bank account or your blood pressure.

    Still, I’m looking forward to going home. Say what you will about Los Angeles—it’s neurotic, performative, and addicted to traffic—but compared to Miami Beach, it’s practically Amish.