Closing the book on deforestation

I have come to a decision.

And you should know decisions often do not come easy for me. In fact, I may take anywhere from six months up to five years or more deciding on such life-altering matters as whether to buy a new phone, whether to get a DVR, or whether to attend a concert. In the case of the latter, sometimes the concert will pass before I decide, and I wind up not even having to make a decision at all. So, win-win.

But the decision I want reveal today is one I have been ruminating over for probably about six years now. And that is, whether or not to shave one's chest. More specifically, mine.

Let me begin by stating that while I do have hair on my chest and stomach area, I really have no idea if it is excessive. I mean, no one's ever gotten their fingers stuck. At least, not for more than a couple seconds. It's not Austin Powers-esque or anything. And thankfully, I don't have any hair on my back.

When I grew up, having hair on one's chest was normal, or so I thought. Tom Selleck, Alan Thicke, the Duke boys, my Dad -- these were my chest role models, the people I looked up to. But anymore? I'm not so sure.

More and more, it seems I and my Church Of The Unshorn Bosom brothers are an ever-shrinking minority. Is shaving the norm now? When did this all start? And where does it end? What's next, shaving our legs? Wearing skinny jeans?

I'm sorry, but I have to take a stand. I'm sick of noticing guys on the beach or at the pool and wondering if they shave or are naturally hairless. Don't you see how wrong that is? I'm noticing guys at the pool! I'm tired of Google-imaging "Alan Thicke shirtless." Even with SafeSearch on moderate, it's still just... too much.

It has to stop.

Maybe I'm lazy. Or maybe I've just gotten old. But shaving seems like way too much maintenance to me at this point. And I imagine much itchiness. Perhaps this is just where I finally hop off the fashion train. I think I've done a remarkably fair job of trying to keep up. Over the years, I've put away the tightie-whities for boxers, traded in the tapered-leg jeans, and even welcomed plaid shorts with open arms and willing legs.

But it's time to admit that I'm not from Jersey Beach or Laguna Hills. I'm not The Situation, or Spooki. I'm Bone. And I'm bringing manly back.

I hereby declare that I will not be shaving my chest. I might even start unbuttoning the second button on my shirt, proudly let the man-meadow sway in the breeze a bit.

Of course, should Tom Selleck do a new movie with a topless scene in which he is clearly rocking the bare-breasted look, at that point I may be forced to revisit my decision.

"I'm so obsessed. My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest..."