He-Man: I Have the Powerrrrrrr … to Apologize
The Prince of Eternia Promised Transformation ... With a Dash of Body Dysmorphia
To all the five-year-old children from 1983-1987: I apologize. You thought I was a futuristic barbarian from the Eternian Tribe and that together we were fighting for justice and adventure? I was a marketing ploy for C-Suite brand managers.
Sure, Mattel already had Barbie, but after the colossal success of the Star Wars action figure lines, they demanded to reverse engineer a boy’s toy. As the Masters of the Focus Group, my catchphrase was meticulously crafted. The most commonly argued-over word of little boys? Power. “No, I have the power!” “No, it’s my power.” My cartoon show He-Man and the Masters of the Universe was created solely to sell the toys. And by Grayskull, I did it—becoming one of the highest-grossing pieces of articulated plastic of my decade, at a record peak of $400 million dollars in 1986.
If I had known 30 years later that millions of men would suffer muscle dysmorphia and eating disorders, I would have at least offered to chip in for insurance coverage. Look, it was the steroidal boom of the 1980s, and shrink-wrapped male torsos were selling all kinds of products like vacuum cleaners and Diet Coke. How was I to know that consuming thousands of images of dehydrated muscles would influence impressionable five-year-olds? To all you men who are cutting carbs to maintain your six-pack, then binging on Funfetti Oreo’s, I owe you an apology.
I promised you transformation—from a whiny privileged punk into a proud humble warrior. Except I didn’t really transform. As Prince Adam I clearly had bulging muscles underneath my skin-hugging shirt. So why did I act so cowardly? Even my voice and haircut stayed the same. The only thing that happened when I raised the glowing Sword of Eternia? Some lightning bolts popped my shirt off. That was it. Everything else was the same. You know what I really should have done with the Power Sword? Cut those bangs.
To those little striplings who now do angry, heavy skull-crushers at the YMCA at 9 p.m. on a Friday night thinking they are sculpting their triceps, bettering themselves, transforming themselves—yeah, that was my bad. I created a generation of ruthless shirt poppers that now includes presidential candidates. You were all chasing my Coridite Crystal curated body—but you know that study that if Barbie were a real human, she’d collapse after six steps due to a waist that couldn’t support a liver or bones? Well, if my ultra-muscularity and near zero bodyfat were also real, you’d be constantly cold, tired, hungry, sick, unmotivated, asexual, depressed, and far too weak to go fifteen rounds with Skeletor (because the kind of low lipids [under 5%] associated with peak bodybuilding shape, if prolonged, results in brittle bones and muscle breakdown). Then again, don’t listen to me. Without a normal range of bodyfat (at least 6-11% for elite athletes, or 15-20% for average healthy males), I’m in a perpetual brain fog. Why am I suddenly scaling Snake Mountain right now?
And yes, even Cringer, my fearful feline was forced into my machishmo scam-a-cadabra, becoming Battle-Cat in a fit of ripped mas-cat-linity. So I guess I should apologize to your pets. I assume they too run on a treadmill at the highest incline to work off the two dozen Auntie Anne’s pretzels they binged all night?
For my crimes against traditional masculinity, I offer to throw myself into the Sea of Eternia. Or at least put a shirt on and eat some bread.
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