Back when the nights were long and the temperature was still in the single digits, I went to dinner with a good friend and met her husband for the first time. He’s a nice guy, a creative guy, a writer and an artist and a cook. And, as it so often does, Sweden came up. The weird things about Sweden at least. We talked about all of those little things that Swedes do that make them so very Swedish. Like the silence on the subways. Like the shoes off in the home. Like the well-fitting clothes. Of course, those clothes that fit so well can sometimes fit a little bit too well. Especially when those clothes are tights.
I don’t wear tights too often. I’ve got a pair for those cold winter days and for skiing. I’ve even got a pair of compression shorts that I used to wear when I was playing sports that actually involved running and jumping. They’re basically the male version of a sports bra. Keeps stuff in place. Which, obviously, was something you wanted to know. Anyway, not wearing tights in this country seems akin to clubbing baby koalas for sport. You just don’t do it.
During the winter, men run through the streets of Stockholm. They’ve perfected the art of breathing without freezing their lungs. They look stylish doing it, having spent more on their workout clothes than I do on rent. But those clothes are sparse as nary a piece of substantial clothing protects them from the elements. Puffs of air rhythmically escape from their half-opened mouths. Their black tights the only thing separating their man-bits from permanent shrinkage in the northern climate. But the darkness gives them cover as they slip and slide their way to a better beach body. Or something like that.
Then the summer comes. The days get longer. Suddenly, the sun peeks out from beneath the horizon. Along with the sun, out comes the bike. It is, by far, the giddiest time of the year here in Sweden. But the tights stay. Those black tights adorn the men who run wild in the streets. Now, the lack of clothing makes some sense. It gets hot running and biking through town.
Unfortunately, I was faced with the reality of men in black tights just the other day. It was late afternoon, the shadows were getting longer, but it was that bright sun that makes coming home from a day at the library just a little bit better. I walked home instead of taking the bus. It felt good.
Having heard one too many angry bike bells behind me, I was walking in the correct lane. I could hear the bikers coming up behind me. Legs cranking. Wheels turning. Heavy breathing. They passed me on the uphill side of what constitutes a hill in this very flat city. They were standing, really using their leverage to push through and pass me. And that’s when the sun flashed just right. Or just wrong. Their tights were too tight. The sun was too bright. The black was too light. Staring back at me were two man asses. Those tights had been reduced to transparent pieces of plastic revealing the full moon on the early evening horizon.
I’m not judging. Ok, I’m kind of judging. I’m just not into seeing your sweaty ass glistening in the Swedish sun. Want to wear tights? Fine. Buy a pair thick enough to give you the support you need and the peace of mind I need.
Welcome to Sweden. And men, manly men, men in tights.