Last month I went out and bought myself two brand new pair of jeans, one Levi, one Wrangler, relaxed fit and straight legged. This may not seem like an interesting event, but is noteworthy because these two brought my new total to three that I’m now able to wear in public without samaritans handing me their spare change.
My T-shirt section of the closet is slightly fuller, augmented by the Avengers and Red Sox additions that my wife bought this past Valentine’s Day. With a gaudy eight now at my disposal, my wardrobe should be all set for most of the next decade.
The Avengers shirt, along with the matching socks, was picked out by my daughter, a point that my wife was quick to make. She also was pretty intent on making sure I was aware that she still held the receipt and could return any of it that I wasn’t prepared to wear.
She shouldn’t have worried. Not only did I not mind either shirt, ( or the socks ) I thought it was cool that Alaina wanted me to have clothes that matched her assorted superhero wear. Even more importantly, I no longer give too much of a rat’s ass what people think about how I’m dressed. My days of trying to be stylish, trying to be cool, are way beyond me and it’s a liberating feeling.
It hasn’t always been that way. Your dress and overall appearance is a representation of how you want people to view you. In high school that meant long hair, dagger earrings hanging from my left lobe, a denim jacket, and a heavy metal T shirt. I was one of the “smart kids”, but I was determined to be a rebel, whatever the hell I thought that meant. As soon as I turned eighteen I got Yosemite Sam tattooed on my left arm, followed soon after by a heart, crossbones behind it and flames surrounding the whole thing. I didn’t want to be a smart kid, I wanted to be a badass. More importantly, I wanted other people to think I was a badass.
I wasn’t and I don’t think anybody was fooled, but I went with the look for a while.
Eventually adulthood, or at least my version of it, forced me to abandon the mullet ( RIP you glorious bastard ) and replace the ripped skull shirts with beer logos and sports merchandise. A pair of dragons and a back tattoo of an angel and a devil arm wresting over a table of people shaped game pieces help to keep my bad boy credentials intact, as did a young, hot wife who didn’t mind hanging out in biker bars.
Now my kid picks out my clothes. More than that, she draws my tattoos, my newest addition being her representation of how we will look joining forces to fight the forces of evil when she’s a bit older and “better in control of her powers.”
People change a lot over the course of a life. Tastes change, trends come and go, priorities shift. We spend a lot time learning to become comfortable with who we are. Some people take longer than others and there are some that just never seem to figure it out.
Besides the Avengers shirt, my wife was also worried that I wasn’t going to like the Red Sox one that she had purchased either. Instead of the name of a player across the back, this one had another three letters, a name spelled out that I feel does a pretty good job of explaining exactly who it is that I am now.
Just might be my favorite shirt yet.