Whoever came up with the expression “Celebrities—they’re just like us!” must’ve been a celebrity, because I’ve got next to nothing in common with the rich, hot, and famous, save for one discernible trait—I, too, hate to have my bare legs captured in photographs while I’m just livin’ my life in unfortunate shorts. Take, for example, the image above. Whose legs are those? With the exception of my explanation, it would be impossible to guess that those lean, athletic gams belong to a member of the Hollywood elite, but they do. So humor me: who do you think owns those legs? And why does it look like they robbed my wardrobe circa 1995?
Here’s an action shot. Blurry definition, but visible nonetheless. Whose legs are those? I’ll give you a hint: they belong to a white man whose name would lead you to believe he is British, but he is not British.
Got any good guesses?
Perhaps seeing his legs clothed, as the pop culture curious public is so accustomed to, would help. Who is this guy?
How about these dapper duds?
Nothing?
No guesses?
Nada?
Well…
On Monday morning, the 79th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Charlie Puth took a trip to his gym (Why? It’s a pandemic—my god, that’s so gross) in a fantastic fit I can only describe as “dirtbag holiday.” Below his tufts of messy brunette hair, he wore a Buc-ee’s Christmas sweater, advertising the Texas convenience store chain those of us who grew up in the Lone Star State view as sacred. Just under that, he wore weird shorts (almost like a fake, blue camouflage but certainly a print I associate with boyhood), athletic socks, and sneakers. And yet, the crown jewel of this devil may care outfit is Puth’s legs: paler than I would’ve imagined, but triumphant all the same.