This is the story of how I came to own a very tight Brazilian sunga. And like all good stories, there will be a moral at the end.
Now, for those of you who don't read blogs about men's international swimwear, a sunga is essentially a Speedo, but cut a little bit more loosely to resemble -- slightly resemble -- a pair of shorts. Brave/foolish readers will look at this Google image search of "Brazilian sunga" (technically safe for work, but do it when no one's around). Though common in much of the world, these "shorts" are so tight that most American men would never wear them to the swimming pool. You can find a similar cut called "boy shorts" in the women's underwear department.
Anyhow, a couple years ago, I flew down to Brazil to visit a friend who was living in Rio de Janeiro. Two of us made the trip. It was the perfect way to visit a foreign city: knowing someone who lives there, not having to stay in a random hotel, and best of all, my buddy spoke fluent Portuguese.
He lived in a large, gated apartment complex in the middle of the city. The apartment complex had its own pool, and anybody in the complex could use it.
There was only one rule: No Board Shorts. Men had to wear a sunga.
"Why the hell do I have to wear a sunga?" I asked my buddy. "Do they really enforce that?"
"Yeah, man. It's for hygiene reasons. When guys wear board shorts around the city, sitting on busses and benches, they get all dirty. Then they could come back and swim in the pool in their dirty shorts. But no one is gonna wear a sunga around the city. So they're cleaner."
Apparently, I had to buy a sunga. So I figured that if I have to wear one, then I was going to do it with confidence -- blinding confidence. We're talking shock and awe, avert your eyes type stuff. I picked out one that was fire-engine red. Among me, you, and the internet, let's say it looked like the photo at right.
And I did it. I swam in the pool wearing my eye-catching, ultra-hygienic Brazilian sunga. And ya know what? The system worked: I didn't wear the sunga around the city.
And on that day, certain areas of my body got more sun than they had ever gotten in the rest of my life combined. Ever gotten a sun burn on your upper thigh? Not so pleasant.
Which brings me to the moral of the story: gym hygiene.
Recently, I was (kindly) informed that CrossFit NYC would start enforcing a "no barefoot" policy at the gym. Previously, I had seen a few other folks working out barefoot, and I had done the same myself a couple of times. But apparently a few people complained, saying that they didn't want to do pushups and stick their face near a surface where people had been walking barefoot. It was unhygienic, they claimed.
Now, I get that barefoot goes against convention, but is it really less hygienic? People wear shoes all around the city, picking up dirt, germs, dog shit, little bits of glass, and god knows what. And then they wear those shoes in the gym. And so when you're doing push-ups, you're sticking your face in all that stuff. It's like wearing dirty board shorts into the pool instead of a sunga, but worse.
And when you look at the showers at CrossFit NYC, there's even a sign that says to take off your shoes before entering the shower area. Why? It's not so your shoes don't get wet. IT'S BECAUSE SHOES ARE DIRTY.
And how often do you wash the bottoms of your shoes? That's what I thought.
It's why polite house guests will take off their shoes at the door. It's why people wipe their shoes on a mat. IT'S BECAUSE SHOES ARE DIRTY.
If I had to guess, the complaints are an emotional response driven by a miscalibrated sense of disgust, not any rational calculus of what is actually hygienic or not.
Anyhow, I don't blame the owners of CrossFit NYC. They're just trying to a run a business, they're reasonable people, and it's a good gym.
In this type of situation, there's really only one thing I can do: start going to workouts in my sunga. With all those squats, it's only a matter of time until they lift the ban.
