I don’t want to be That Guy. You know who I mean. You’ve seen him around. Deep-v t-shirts exposing chest-hair stubble. Butt-ugly dark denim jeans with what appears to be white blanket-stitching on the back pockets. Trucker caps spun too far to one side, appearing more idiotic than ironic. Convinced that his style camouflages his age. The human budgie, captivated by his own reflection, unaware he is staring into a carnival funhouse mirror.
But I also don’t want to be That Other Guy. That Guy’s brother. You’ve undoubtedly seem him around too. Khakis. Small-check or plaid collared shirt. Sensible shoes. Subtle fear of appearing too old and too young at the same time. The Goldilocks of the GQ set. He who craves ‘just right’.
I don’t want to be That Guy or That Other Guy. But here I am. Wearing a golf-shirt, hoodie, khaki cargos, and Keens. Next stop: trucker caps and bad ass jeans.
Okay, I admit it. I turn 45 in six months. And the very thought of turning 45 makes me feel as though I’m wearing a wool sweater…sickly warm and itchy.
Its not that I have any regret or reservations about where I am in my life or the things I have accomplished or the things to which I have committed. I like me. We get along well. It’s simply a matter of chronological dissonance.
I am standing smack-dab between my experience as an undergrad living on student loans and my imaginings of life as a retired gent living on a fixed income. And I don’t like it much. It boggles my mind. Or maybe that’s just the panic attack dizziness. Either way, I’m not processing it well.
And so, in true extroverted introvert fashion, I will process my musings, meanderings and mental whatnots in the quiet of my interior world before posting them to this brand-spanking new blog for the world at large. (I feel dizzy again.)
I have a loyal clutch of friends who have been encouraging me to write and publish for quite some time now. And I have been resistant. You see, I’m not interested in a vanity project. I have no desire to document my culinary progression through a cook book. I do not have a pet whose fascination with cardboard boxes requires daily photo-documentation. And I have no interest in cataloguing strangers’ street-wear style.
Simply put, I turn 45 in six months and I don’t have a thing to wear.