Oh man. Food rules. Little rivals the pleasure of tearing into a glistening burger. Conversely, nothing murders the moment-boner faster than watching some dude dismantle his own burger, peel off the melted cheese, blot off the ketchup, then ditch the bun while explaining loudly to all gathered that he needs to go for it “protein-style” because today is not his “cheat day.”

It's an accepted fact that everyone wants to look better when naked. And despite the Zeitgeist's specious elevation of the dad bod, the human infatuation with muscles and tautness and symmetry isn't going anywhere. We're all metabolic snowflakes, granted, but we're united in wanting to look our best selves.

We know exactly what methodologies to attempt to get us there. Cut carbs. Or booze. Maybe eat an entire ocean of cod while working out exactly four trillion times a day, like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Shave your chest hair and swallow the CrossFit Kool-Aid. Take only the most judicious sips of kale-ginger-asparagus water while contemplating the crippling heft of this mortal coil. Join a Bikram-flow-yoga, Flywheel, or Pilates class so you can find spiritual oneness amid grunting socialite moms. Do whatever you want. Just please, for the love of God, stop talking about it.

Lately every third dude believes, wrongly, that it's socially acceptable to explain in great, boring detail about what he puts in his mouth and turns into poop every day.

Perfectly smart, seemingly well-adjusted guys who previously discussed topics like music, sports, war, and existential crises in the face of their disappointing fathers now natter like sewing-circle matrons about their favorite ready-to-drink bone broth. (Food is medicine, you know.) Is it grossly unfair and gender-normative to imply that men shouldn't be able to openly admit their vulnerability in the #struggle for #abs? Yes. But the phrase “cheat day” is embarrassing. Respect yourself.

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Those two words—“cheat day”—are really the most teeth-grating infraction. The false-naughty transgression of enjoying food for precisely one 24-hour period is, well, pathetic. It's the male equivalent of a probiotic-yogurt commercial. It's ladies who plan a “cupcake tour” and call each other “LADIEEEEES!” Allocating a time and place to eat pasta after six days of not eating pasta isn't an event. And it's definitely not conversation.

You're trying to nudge closer to those oblique V lines that make your dick space look good in a bathing suit? Admirable. I get that we've all internalized a need to lifecast the minutiae of our waking moments online, but nobody needs to know how that sausage is made. Do you know why we pay trainers and nutritionists? Because having to muster interest in the minor successes of someone else's journey toward pedestrian-ass healthiness is taxing and should be compensated.

Let me tell you a secret: Men who eat without agonizing are hot, just like men who cook, fix things, or mix a woman a drink without having to be asked. Everyone knows that the idea of the laid-back chick with both a thigh gap and C cups who eats fried chicken is a fantasy—but that fantasy works only if you don't try to imagine what she does behind the scenes to maintain that facade. Well, women want to believe you can be Groundskeeper-Willie-jacked without having to know about the time you wanted Funyuns so bad that you almost cried. It's all TMI. Especially if we're just getting to know you.

That said, if you're a husband or a live-in boyfriend who's trying to get your skinny on, please do give us a heads-up. You people are mean when you're going through ketosis.