I think I’m ready to declare Operation Order a Hat from Ireland at least a modest success. Sadly, it’s still my head the damn thing has to sit on.
Tag: style
In which I am evolving, or something …
Yes, I know, I really need to vacuum the God damned ottoman and get the cat hair off. Shut up, we’re freaking out about something entirely different in this post.
I bought those shoes yesterday, with the typical attendant anxiety bullshit that happens every single fucking time I need to buy shoes. I wanted something with some damn color; every pair of shoes I’ve bought in the last three or four years has been black and I wanted some summer-weight shoes that didn’t look like something I’d wear to work. Those caught my eye two or three times before I dared to grab a box and try them on, and then my whole entire brain went nuts because everyone was looking at me except they weren’t and no one cares and also– and this was what made me nut up and buy the damned things– I literally have an entire shirt that exact color, and I assure you that when I’m wearing that thing I’m visible from Mars.
So, yeah, you can see my feet in the dark now. The punch line to all this is it’s possible I bought them in slightly too small of a size, because the aforementioned anxiety issues kept me from giving them a full test in the store. I think they’re within the “they’ll break in fine” range, though, so we’ll cross our fingers.
There is something going on with my sense of personal style lately. I’ve been ordering rings and bracelets– bracelets, for God’s sake, although I haven’t found one that I like enough to wear regularly yet– and I’ve gone to work with three rings on more than once recently. I have a hat coming in the mail tomorrow that was shipped from Ireland and I suspect if I like it I’m going to own two or three more by the time my birthday rolls around in July.
If I end up spending a few thousand bucks on an arm sleeve this summer, will somebody do me a favor and stage an intervention?
In which I’m dumb again
School was back in session today, finally, albeit with a two-hour delay to let the last of the below-zero temperatures bleed away before the kids had to be outside waiting for buses. Unsurprisingly, facing a shortened Friday after three days off something like 48% of the student body opted to not bother coming to school, so it was really peaceful around the building today.
I showed up for work today in a button-down grey shirt, sleeves rolled up (I always roll up my sleeves; I despise the feeling of fabric on my lower arms for some reason,) with a blue-and-purple Jerry Garcia tie and a brand-new purple sweater vest. It marked the first time in my life I’d ever deliberately worn a sweater vest, and my last thought after looking in the mirror before going to work was I have never looked more like a middle-aged middle school teacher in my life than I do right now.
I didn’t mean to buy the goddamn sweater vest. It was literally a stupid accident. I was at the fat man store last week sometime buying T-shirts (as it turns out, my policy of buying shirts at the cons I go to has put me in a position where most of my wearable T-shirts are con shirts now, and I needed to reassert the proper solid-color balance) and I saw the sweater on a table on the way out. I liked the color and the subtle pattern and I bought it on a whim, not realizing until I got home and unfolded it to hang up that it was a damn sweater vest. I don’t even know why I dislike sweater vests so much; it’s an irrational prejudice but I still have it.
A sensible person would have just returned the sweater; I’m keeping it out of spite. Against, apparently, myself and my own bad decisions.
And then two different kids over the course of the day compared me to Rick Ross, who, if you don’t know, is the dude in the picture up there, a picture I obtained by Googling “Rick Ross sweater vest”. One might think that that might be a sign that sweater vests are perhaps his thing, but no, it turns out shirtlessness is more his thing, and I will never as long as I live be photographed shirtless, full-body torso tattoos or not. I think the kids probably thought they were making fun of me, but I feel like any day where I walk out of the house thinking I could not possibly look more like a middle-aged middle-school teacher and then get compared to a famous and wealthy rapper is a good day even if the main point of comparison is that we’re both fat and bald and have bushy beards. I’ll take what I can get, dammit.
On my new face and my stupid brain
I realized a couple of weeks ago that I was out of date for a new prescription for my glasses, both in the strict calendrical sense and in the fact that I can tell my current glasses aren’t quite cutting it any longer. I’ve been weird about eye doctors since moving back to my hometown; the guy who took over for my original (birth to age 26 or so) eye doctor after he passed away was a bit of a brusque ass; the dude after him was fine personally but his office sucked, and a new optometry practice just opened up a couple of miles away from my house. So time for a new eye doctor for this visit, and time for a new face, too. I wanted, in the abstract, a new look, something radically different from the style of my last several pairs of virtually-identical frames.
Hah.
So here is a thing about me that I hadn’t realized: despite the fact that I’ve had glasses on my face for damn near every single day since second grade (there were a couple of detours into contact lenses that didn’t stick) I apparently don’t actually want to see glasses when I look at my face. My preferred style for years now has been to have no frames on the lower part of the lenses, and I found myself quickly gravitating toward “screw-mount,” or frameless, glasses. The pair I ended up with is in that picture up there; on my face, they’re nearly invisible.
(Don’t ask why I didn’t get a selfie. I’m not a millennial. I didn’t think of it.)
And I discovered two other things about myself, one of which kind of alarms me and both of which deserve a bit more personal interrogation: 1) it turns out that I don’t actually have any idea how to distinguish “frames for women” from “frames for men,” beyond obvious considerations of the size of the damn things, and 2) my first thought, upon putting anything more substantial than the frameless or half-frame look on my face, was almost always “Man, these look really gay.”
To be clear, we’re talking about frames like this:
…
Okay, this whole post just fell apart, because in my attempt just now to find a “not gay” pair of men’s glasses, I initially grabbed a picture of Zachary fucking Quinto, who is actually gay.
Sigh.
Anyway, point is, under on-someone-else’s-face circumstances, I don’t think these glasses look gay:
Nor these, and yes, I did deliberately look for a picture of Clark Kent:
..which, goddamn, are those the same glasses? Has Zachary Quinto played Superman? Maybe he should. The point is it is exceedingly rare for me to look another man’s glasses and think that his glasses make him look gay.
But if you take those same glasses and put them on my face, all the sudden what I see is this:
(That’s Leo, from season six of Worst Cooks in America, and probably a bunch of other places but that’s where I first encountered him. He’s hilarious. And he can rock whatever look he wants. I cannot.)
Anyway, point is, that’s weird, right? I am, under normal circumstances, sufficiently secure in my sexuality, or at least I thought I was, and while my wife will probably be able to come up with a counterexample, I can’t really come up with any other times where I’ve rejected an entire genre of apparel because it “made me look gay.” But, shit, that was the reaction to every single pair where the frames were actually visible, and it was immediate. Like, what the hell, brain? Where did that little bit of internalized homophobia come from, and how do we beat the shit out of it?
I probably ought to just buy the thickest pair of brightly colored glasses I can find and make myself wear them until I don’t give a shit anymore.