Phil Scott: The Skin I Live In

A body-conscious Phil Scott learns to let it go, just in time for the Mardi Gras festivities.

Not long ago I bumped into a friend of mine, and we started talking about movies.

“Have you seen The Skin I Live In?” I asked, then strutted like a catwalk model and added, “This is it”. He looked me up and down and said “Didn’t they have it in your size?”

I laughed but sobbed on the inside. He reminded me how thin-skinned we are about our bodies at this time of the year. The combination of summer and Mardi Gras means we can no longer cover up.

Since 2012 began I have been going to the gym every second day without fail… until today when I stayed home to write this column. I usually go around 9 or 10am, when the muscle boys and shift workers are not around. It makes for a less intimidating time in the change room.

I was just out of the showers the other day when a hot guy walked in. He wore a singlet and shorts, and carried a khaki bag that he squeezed into a high locker. As he raised his carefully sculpted arms, I felt faint and needed to sit down. The guy reeked of scent! He must have poured a bucket of it over himself before he left home. His personal fragrance was so fierce I thought it would peel the paint off the walls and turn the ceiling mouldy. (Except that had already happened, the result of six weeks of wet weather.) I thought to myself: “What’s wrong with the smell of good old masculine sweat? It’s supposed to be a gym, not the Canberra Floriade”.

I guess it’s all part of the body presentation rite we force ourselves through every year. What a cruel joke that Mardi Gras comes so soon after Xmas when we eat too much, and New Year’s Eve when we drink too much. It doesn’t give people long to recover! Stomachs aged over forty don’t bounce back. They just bounce.

So when I was invited to a men-only summer pool party a few weeks ago I had second thoughts about going. Would it be like an Aussie Bum photo shoot? Tanned, glistening, steroidal gods everywhere? In such company I would look like a pale flotation device bobbing around in the pool. A mix of Moby Dick and Uncle Fester. The embarrassment potential was high but so was the perv factor… so I grabbed my most flattering pair of swimmers and took the plunge.

I need not have worried. Putting aside the fact that everyone was genuinely friendly, the age range was weighted towards guys in their 40s and 50s. These are my people! It soon dawned on me that I’d been comparing myself to the wrong models. How pointless! It’s like comparing apples with oranges – or zits with liver spots. The men at this party were all shapes and sizes, most with body hair intact, and I fitted right in. So much so that it simply wasn’t an issue. Thin or fat, if you are over forty you look it, especially when you’re naked. Every arse will start to sag at some stage. Every back will decide to sprout hair. You can exfoliate but you can’t hide.

So now I’m totally liberated! I’ve had a mental makeover. I am going to Mardigrasland and I am definitely planning to take my shirt off when I get there. Have you seen the skin I live in? Here it is. Cope with it.  

Phil Scott’s cabaret The Twink & The Showgirl with Vincent Hooper is at Slide on Tuesday, February 28.