Worst in Style; Best in Philosophy

I was born in New Jersey and lived there until I was ten (technically, 9 and 11 months–but who’s really counting?). When my family packed up and moved to southern California I suppose we were kinda like the Clampetts. Actually, we were nothing like the Clampetts. They were rich and proud of their roots.

Once in California, my parents tried to dress me for the part–or at least what they thought the part was. I wore loud, outrageous shirts. I remember a bright orange thing with no sleeves: it looked like a karate vest crossed with a pumpkin. Crimes against nature like floral-print shorts and aviator sunglasses too large for my face. My hair was combed in a style that completely didn’t fit my head–or even suitable for the hair I was born with (you can’t slick dense, curly hair). I’ll admit: I was excited too–it was exhilarating to be cool and on the cusp of fashion greatness. Alas, “cool” is a relative term. What I thought was cool was miscast in Southern California, and–unfortunately for my self-esteem–the kids started laughing at me before I even made it to the bus stop.

In junior high I decided to adopt the sports apparel look. Nikes, Reebok, LA Gear (you heard me) were the garb of choice. Every T-shirt I wore was of a sports team, athlete, or catch phrase (“It’s gotta be the shoes”). Unfortunately, that also led to ridicule. I remember one day being picked on because I wore a Reebok shirt with Nike shoes (that was also the day I learned about brand loyalty). Later on that year, I made a similar mistake by wearing a Yankee hat with a 49er shirt.

I wish I remember the turning point as well as I remember the moments of embarrassment. Maybe there wasn’t a turning point. I just know by the time high school rolled around, I said “fudge it” and gave up trying to look cool. Ironic, isn’t it? Most teenagers spend their entire high school tenure trying to look cool while I wholeheartedly didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

I came across a brand of black athletic shorts I greatly enjoyed. The pockets were big, the crotch was loose, and they didn’t restrict my movement in any way. I had my mother buy two dozen pairs and threw away any other pants, jeans, and flower-print shorts I owned. I migrated to simple T-shirts with no brands, logos, or identifiably markings whatsoever. The only way I was able to differentiate my clothes was by each unique ketchup stain. So long, “No Fear,” Big Johnson, and Bart Simpson. I even revamped my hair. Instead of fiddling with combs, brushes and hair products every morning in order to make sure no strand is out of place…I got hair clippers and buzzed my head twice a month. My style was no style–all comfort and convenience.

Kids would ask me “Didn’t you wear those shorts yesterday?” –Nope, I got 24 pairs of these.

“Why don’t you grow your hair out?” –Because I don’t like wasting ten minutes every morning combing it.

“Don’t you get tired of wearing a T-shirt and shorts every day?” –Why should I? It makes sorting laundry much easier.

Don’t get me wrong–I wasn’t entirely without style–I did get my ear pierced (it was the 90s, after all). But outside of that, my look contained the simplicity of a bare-naked baby and the style of the Amish (minus those ridiculously unnecessary buttons).

It was great not giving a damn. I was in my own world and I felt fabulous about it. Unfortunately, that aspect of my adolescence followed me to early adulthood. I didn’t want to have a job that made me wear pants (at this point, my bare knees had been exposed to sunlight daily for a decade). I strongly believed in the theory a guy only needed one pair of shoes. Eventually I stopped buying T-shirts completely and had an entire wardrobe made of free shirts given away when one applies for a credit card.

This is also the phase of my life where my wife openly wonders, “How did you ever get laid?”

I did quite fine, thank you.^*

I clung to my clothes–held fast to the theory that if a shirt is covering your body, it’s doing its job. Stains were more than tolerable–they were completely unnoticed by me. Minute tears, stretched-out neck holes, and shirts old enough to have baby shirts of their own were all thoroughly incorporated into my wardrobe. Every Christmas My mother gave me a half-dozen T-shirts because she knew it was the only way I would ever get new clothes.

Eventually I did get married and slowly started to accept a female’s influence to my style. I’m still nowhere near what one would call “well-dressed”–but at least I no longer look like a homeless person. Ketchup stains still exist–but it’s the Wife’s responsibility to point them out.

But sometimes I wonder…what would have happened to me if the kids of my youth didn’t play Mr. Blackwell with me every day? I’m not going as far to suggest I was well-dressed as a child, but I learned not to care because I was tormented by kids doing what kids do. I was probably no worse than the other kids–I just made the mistake of showing it bothered me. If I laughed it off or put my tormentors in the hospital, would things be different today?

My wife often asks me “Don’t you care what you look like” and the answers is always emphatically ‘No!’ I learned not to care–it was a coping mechanism. But maybe if I cared–even if it was just a little–I might be better dressed than I am today.

Then I would have really gotten laid in college.

^* college life has a plethora of insecure girls with self-esteem issues