Farewell, sleeveless summer nights

The summer season is drawing to a close. For that, we are thankful. We will mourn the hibernation of Havaianas, white ensembles, and floral accents. We will look forward to that time of the year when flowing coats, streamlined jackets, and layered clothing will be acceptable. But one thing will forever remain unloved, unappreciated, even despised, in our minds and hearts. Well. In my mind and heart, at least. Sleeveless shirts. Cutoffs. Jerseys. The dreaded sando.

Now, before you raise your torches and pitchforks, note that I refer to the male segment of the metro’s population. There is nothing wrong with spaghetti straps and tank tops, ladies. Keep your underarms clean, hairless, and tutti frutti-scented and we’ll get along magically. I wince, mince, and wail over men’s insistence on exposing that part of the anatomy that is best left concealed. Male armpits don’t exactly stand as the epitome of the Divine Providence’s beautiful creations. Wild, unkempt hair, unattractive beads of dripping sweat, and the most terrifying aspect of all: putok. Let’s be forward here. Odor-producing bacteria festers on the fabric right under your sleeves, but for the love of Juan, better a T-shirt than a sleeveless. At least you’ll be protecting the world from a truly hideous sight. When you raise your arm to acknowledge or to wave goodbye and expose your infernal pit, let there be fabric, not a wet, scraggly creature that smells like unhappy laundry.

The shirtsleeve is a precious thing. It is holy. It protects your poor, gelatinous shoulders from the elements. It helps keep your toothpicky limbs warm, tingly, and nice. It acts as an emergency Kleenex. Don’t you see how far the shirtsleeve has taken us? It is the mark of true human evolution. The Neanderthals could not murder enough animals to cover themselves up with, and even if they did, they didn’t have the technology to make kicky leopard-skin jumpsuits. The Romans and Egyptians insisted on togas that nowadays belong only to inspired couturiers and very, very specialized college parties. Then came the conservative and well accepted: the Malaysian baju, the Japanese kimono, and our very own barong. Why do you sacrilegious sleeve-burners insist on angering the great deities of extra fabric?

I do not condemn the beach bums. Take your surfboards, stereos, and sandos to a sandy, sunny locale and stay there. I do not condemn those who wear them for work and for practicality’s sake. Labor and toil in sleeveless splendor, good citizen. It is a hot country, and your armpits are helping to propel us to second-world status. But you heathens who insist on wearing your jerseys and dance instructoresque ensembles to clubs, malls, and, god forbid, restaurants…it is time to repent. The rain has come to wash your transgressions away. We welcome you back to the fold of the fully clothed and publicly decent.

Seriously. There is a reason sandals and sandos are not allowed within a 50-yard radius of very many establishments. One of the last things a diner wants to see while enjoying his pato l’orange is a shrieking specimen of sleeveless sacrilege. There is a time and a place for everything. The same goes for wearing a sleeveless shirt. So you have big, bulging biceps and shoulders so broad you can break doorframes by shrugging. That’s not the point. If it isn’t a gym, a swimming pool, a practice track, a beach, a basketball court, or your own room, you have no excuse. I don’t care. Stow away your sequined little dance shirt. Many clubs and restaurants will suddenly become friendlier. At least wear a jacket. But if you happen to be best friends with the bouncer, or maybe even the owner, then stop reading. Conversion is futile.

Consider my humble plea, gentlemen of Manila. The world is a big, scary place, filled with chainsaw-wielding murderers, policemen, and violent old women. But there is no need to roll up your sleeves. Your biceps are not your best defense. Your clothes are. One day, an evil, long-nailed image consultant may swoop down upon you and gnaw at your shins, nibbling your limbs into submission, screaming and commanding you to repent. Retire your jerseys and put away your singlets. Maybe someday, the world will run out of extra textile, and sleeves will finally go out of commission. Fat chance of that happening, but save your sandos for the Spandex Apocalypse, and you will be heralded as heroes, saving humanity from the horror of having to wear denim hot pants, bandeaus, and toilet paper. For now, it is best to keep your armpits out of sight. Offer this population comfort and security, protection from the scourge that is untrimmed hair, the curse that is body odor, the horror that is a glistening, wet pit, forever. Or at least for one season.