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.
That's what I'm talkin' bout, S-dog (I've got my hat on sideways)
ReplyDeleteWE TURN 45?
ReplyDeleteEgad ... now I'm dizzy!
dude. all you need to wear is that smile.
ReplyDeleteWriting about yourself is not vanity, it's generosity.
ReplyDelete