Get Ready With Me for Lunch With the Neighbor
Sorting through lives worth of baggage to find the right shorts
We collect things as one life tumbles into the next. The physical stuff is obvious, revealed by the backpain from moving the seventh box of books if nothing else, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about clothing.
Until high school, I didn’t care much about what I wore. Like many boys, my wardrobe included ill-fitting jeans, a belt, and baggy t-shirts. I looked like a skeleton in a windsail. My “choral whites”[1] weren’t much better.
I don’t know why I started to care, but there’s a good chance it was the age-old pubescent reasons: women and peer pressure. Either way, I took the mid 2000’s approach with large button downs over jeans and a bucket of hair gel. I was no fashionista, but even now I don’t think my clothing was cringy (that honor belongs to my hairdo).
Over time my fashion sense continued to evolve. For example: clothes looked better when they fit and belts could be both fashion and utility. After college I met Adam, whom I’m still close with. We had some adventures in business, but we also shared an evolution in fashion.
We’d both become interested in color theory, fit, and style. I love some bold colors, and they were a great way to scare my insecurity to the surface. Screw black, give me a blue suit. White shirts? No way, I want yellow with polka dots. And why is no one wearing pocket squares and tie pins?
We were both managers in Oklahoma City; you can guess the rumors going on about us. But who cared? This wasn’t high school anymore.
But there was some peer pressure that still got to me. When you express yourself, and that expression is loud, it rubs people in a weird way. Often, it’ll rouse them from their day. You’ll see a quirk of an eyebrow then a smile before they say, “been a while since I’ve seen a bowtie.” I didn’t get much negative feedback. I’m sure people continued to make assumptions about my sexuality, but they’d do that anyway. It was family that got to me.
It was never mean spirited, but it was almost always, “Why?” “Look who got all fancy!” or some other call out with a connotation of “wrong, try again.”
I want to be clear, this is what I heard, not what was said. I don’t think anyone was trying to put me down or come across as “you’re wrong,” but that’s what it felt like.
Life continued, and my exploration landed on discovery. As COO of a small financial advisory firm, I’d found a uniform, striking the balance between mundane and flash. No suit, chinos and a jacket. Expression was through ties and pocket squares. Suit and shirt tailored. Tan full brogues. I felt comfortable. Somehow invisible to those from whom I feared judgement, and visible to those whom I wished to see me.
That was almost ten years ago, now. I’ve gone through a couple lives since then. I have several uniforms I wear, much like the masks. I’ve narrowed my wardrobe to three options.
Get ready with me for lunch with the neighbor.
First: the city socialite.
My tan full brogues, yellow socks, navy chinos, and a yellow button down with small red and grey dots. Fun and colorful. I love blue and yellow combinations. Despite being partially color blind, I can see the conjunction, and it makes me smile. And these shoes are my pride and joy. They were a gift from about ten years ago, and they look just as good today thanks to some diligent care.
This version of me wants to be seen and respected. The clean, professional lines and bold colors speak to the confidence I hope to inspire in myself.
This is clearly the wrong choice for lunch. I live in the country, now. I’ll be walking down the sandy driveway to get to the neighbor and probably sweat through the shirt before we walked through the door. OK, back into the suitcase.
Second: the country cowboy.
Too-clean cowboy boots under deep blue denim held up by suspenders underneath a dark green fishing shirt. I like to think of this as my work uniform made social. The key difference – clean pants. The whole thing is more camouflage than comfort. I just don’t care for jeans. They wear comfortably, but the pockets are never in the right spot.
This version of me wants to go unseen, to become a grey man in the crowd.
Not a bad choice, but it’s Texas summer… maybe jeans wouldn’t be the best idea.
Third: the hiking hipster.
Black hiking boots, thigh level blue shorts (can you guess my favorite color?), and a floral polo shirt that I found at a thrift shop years ago. I love this shirt. It’s colorful enough to bring me some joy, but the colors are muted to make it easy to match. I also love these boots. I wear them nearly every day, preferring to work in them than steel toed boots. What can I say, I like ankle support.
This version of me is a mix, comfortable, loose fabric, colors in moderation, and hiking boots that let everyone know I’m not taking myself too seriously.
This is the one.
It’s strange to look at these three outfits knowing that they’re each part of me. I’d thought of them like Jim Carey’s the Mask – something that transformed me into a different version. It may be more similar to batman’s suits.
Down in his cave, batman had a whole line up of specialized outfits – one for space combat, one for underwater missions, probably one for bomb diffusion or specifically designed to keep him from laughing. He put them on and took them off, deploying them for the ideal situation, but it was his choice and it was always him in the suit.
I look to my office chair where my standard batsuit hangs. It’s nothing impressive. Certainly not for going out. Yellow crocs, black gym shorts, and a white V-neck undershirt. I laughed at my metaphor as I pull my pants up
Bruce Wayne was batman’s mask. I wondered if I have one, hiding in plain sight. For a moment, I consider if my white V-neck is worn by Bruce Wayne or Batman.
I shook my head. I’m neither. Tightening the laces of my boots felt almost clinical, like setting a splint. Maybe these outfits aren’t masks or suits, maybe they’re crutches. Something lean against when the noises are too loud and the lights are too bright. A brace to steady myself into authenticity or remind me of who’s inside the clothing.
I stand up and regard my reflection. My eyes pass over the dull flowers on the shirt, the wrinkles on the shorts, the dirt crusted on the boots, then me underneath it all.
I smile and walk out into the hot sunlight.
From the Rift
Somes we look back on the past, and sometimes it runs at us full speed. If you want to see how I slam into the wall of my past and survived, check out The Cell Phone
[1] My fancy term for the white button up and black suit and tie worn by choral, musical, and sometimes improv performers. If you know who’s got them, and they are a man, there a better shot that not that there’s at least one hole in the ensemble.
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