"AM I PORTLY?"

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. At least once a day, I enter the living room and Evan asks, “Do you think I’m portly?”

 

Good god, where’s the escape hatch?

 

As I’ve told Evan multiple times, the answer is no. Still, the question must be asked. Over and over.

 

So what brought this on? Has Evan stopped going to his cardo-yoga classes? No. Is he suffering from a medical condition that causes regular bloating? No. Has he started eating desserts? No. (Blueberries regularly sit in the refrigerator and go bad because I believe someone once told Evan there are natural sugars in fruit and he grew up in a certain gay era where all sugars were considered bad. I’ve seen him eat a single blueberry and then stop.) This is not an issue related to exercise or eating. The problem is Evan is moving.

 

I realize that, for most people, getting ready for a big move does not cause them to go through a crisis regarding body dysmorphia. Moves bring on stress. They stir a sense of melancholy over leaving an established life behind. They induce anxiety over what the future holds and how settling into a new home in an unknown town may come with struggles. But I’ve never known anyone to fret over body weight because of a move.

 

Then again, I’ve never known anyone like Evan.

 

The problem in the biggest sense is that Evan owns a lot of stuff. Furniture. Tchotchkes. Clothes. It’s that last category that triggers, “Am I portly?”

 

Evan spent some of his formative gay years in New York City and Miami. Whereas I embraced the baggy decade of the ’80s, Evan ascribed to a more common gay mindset: the tighter, the better. If you had even a trace of a muscle, the clothing was supposed to smother that bulge like a cast so pecs, biceps, butts and even calf muscles were flaunted. Having to buy a crow bar to undress at the end of the day was just one of those sacrifices made in the name of fashion. And all signs indicate Evan has always loved fashion. 

 

Evan’s current apartment has five closets he has equipped with double and triple rods for accumulating and cramming in the maximum amount of clothing. As well, he has the largest chest of drawers I’ve ever seen. More cramming! Although he asserts he got rid of a lot of clothes when he moved from Seattle to Denver two years ago, “a lot” means too little for someone who can’t walk past a vintage store without going in and will ramble on for twenty minutes espousing the virtues of the brand, Dsquared2, or Ralph Lauren’s contribution to the betterment of the world. (I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh” in the right places.) 

 

Evan has dozens of cowboy boots, at least fifty pairs of jeans, countless jackets and blazers and drawers of shirts I’m afraid to open for fear I’ll never be able to shut them. Do a Google Images search of clothes horse and Evan’s photo should be the first thing that pops up. I believe the Oxford Dictionary is currently amending their definition to include Evan as a synonym.

 

With all that handy storage, Evan has had the luxury of holding onto a massive stockpile of clothing. 

 

That, however, is about to change. His big move is from Denver to the Aspen area, widely regarded as one of the most expensive places to live in the United States. Costs to rent a place are outrageous. At 57, Evan does not want the hourlong commute that some of his younger coworkers have opted for in order to find something more affordable. As well, he rightly considers himself as having aged out of a time when having one or more roommates is palatable. After finally finding a MUCH smaller place for just himself that’s a reasonable commute to and from work, he now has to go through a significant downsizing. Many of his possessions are going to a storage locker but other items are just going. Hello, Goodwill.

 

This leads to the daily “Am I portly?” question.

 

Downsizing comes with painful decisions. What stays? What goes? I’ve shared with Evan the oft-stated rule: if you haven’t worn something for a year, chuck it. I hear him restating it as he talks to himself while staring into one of his closets. He amends the term to two years. But there are too many exceptions to make the rule a rule. While I go out and write—he won’t let me in on the decision-making—he proceeds to try on countless items. 

 

Let me restate the shopping philosophy he was raised on: the tighter, the better. Imagine what happens to him then when trying on a pair of leather pants he bought ten years ago, a shirt from fifteen years ago and a blazer that dates back to last century. (If he reads this post, he’ll take great offense to this paragraph. Where are all the adjectives to describe the utter awesomeness of the pants, the shirt and the blazer? These are not ordinary clothing items. Each has a story and a long list of features to make the item particularly precious.) 

 

Clothes Evan bought many, many years ago were as tight as they could be when he bought them at twenty-three or thirty-six. (I wonder how many XX Small shirts were left on fitting room floors when a sleeve ripped as he tried to get the darn things off.) Now fifty-seven, it stands to reason that some things are even snugger. Uncomfortably so. 

 

Yes, aging sucks. There are indignities even for people who remain fit. That mirror, mirror on the wall betrays us every time.

 

Hence yesterday’s welcoming when I returned from a writing session: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before that: “Am I portly?”

 

The move happens tomorrow and Evan still has to tackle that colossal chest of drawers today. I know I’m going to be hit with that familiar question yet again. And again. Twenty-four hours cannot pass fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

FLIGHTS OF FICKLENESS

The problem with fashion is it’s a moving target. To remain fashionable, you have to regularly invest—the money, obviously, but also the time people-watching, browsing magazines, scanning store racks and checking out online trends. 

 

If you love it, the investment is worthwhile. Who doesn’t love a stranger stopping them in the street to say, “I love your look!”? Many crave social media recognition. Post that selfie showing off that prized vintage find or your haul from Mr. Turk and glory in the uptick in followers and “likes.” If you’re single, you may even be approached by the right kind of guy—confident, professional, indisputably sexy—in a café, gallery or pop-up seaweed tapas restaurant—these are places fashionable folks hang.

 

It you don’t love it so much, any effort can feel expensive, exhausting and exclusionary. That is, if you even bother to let any of it register beyond the spectacle of the Oscars red carpet and the Met Gala. Events like that are accessible to all because they are so over-the-top. Nobody is going to go on Etsy to track down a knockoff of the meat dress Lady Gaga wore at the 2020 MTV Video Music Awards. Billy Porter’s black tux gown worn at the 2019 Oscars would accidentally(?) get stepped on umpteen times if you wore it while walking any sidewalk or hallway. (It looks like it would serve double duty as a sidewalk sweeper.) And, if you tried to buy online an approximation of Bjork’s swan dress from the 2001 Oscars, your computer would probably crash as a preventative measure.

 

Most men ascribe to a Clark Gable view of not following fashion: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” (Update in 2024-speak: “Fuck that.”) A football sweatshirt has all-year versatility. (In a heat wave, it can be laundered as the beer tee is pulled from the dresser drawer or, more likely, the heap that takes over the other half of the sofa. This incarnation of Clark Gable doesn’t have a person with whom to share the sofa, go figure. 

 

At least, let the t-shirt promote Bud Light.

 

As a teen, I wanted to be fashionable. The desire arose from a need. I desperately wanted to be seen. Popular, if I dared to be so honest. I didn’t come close…to popularity, to exuding a fashion sense, to registering. Silver lining: invisibility spared me from bullying. (Seriously! I wasn’t a target because I was never in frame.)

 

When I began college at Texas Christian University, a decidedly conservative upper-middle class private institution in an even more conservative state, it was the height of the preppy era. I’d been gifted not one, but two copies of The Official Preppy Handbook for high school grad. It was easy to build a wardrobe, if not to stand out, then to fit in. With a full rainbow of Izods and Ralph Lauren polo shirts, a few pairs of khaki pants in varying shades of taupe and a growing collection of topsiders, I was like everybody else, which was a more reasonable aspiration for an introvert than standing out. 

 

I hit my groove not long after moving to L.A. Presumably, preppies, if they still existed in Southern California, kept to Orange County and enclaves near San Diego. I spent a lot of time as a finally out gay man in West Hollywood, but I didn’t conform to the gay looks of the time which all seemed inspired by the mantra, Less Shows More. No, I didn’t have “more” to show. I went with clean, somewhat baggy clothes—“in” at the time among non-gays, at least—solids instead of patterns. Lots of linen, band collars, dark colors (olive, navy) with an occasional go at something brighter. (Wish I hadn’t worn out my peach Girbaud shirt and matching socks.)

 

Fashion mattered. Neither popularity nor blending in was a factor anymore but, being gay, I absorbed the expectation that I was supposed to have style. Most fashion designers were gay. Every man working at Barney’s, Bloomingdale’s and Fred Segal was gay, right? 

 

Being fashionable was supposed to earn my GAY badge. And also my longtime companion. That was the term of the time for a relationship that evolved beyond “boyfriends.”

 

My efforts proved, uh, fruitless. No badge, no boyfriend. (In hindsight, “longtime companion” was far too lofty.)  But the takeaway was that I made the effort. The biggest letdown once becoming part of the gay community? It might be inflammatory, but I stand by it…Here comes the big reveal:

Gay men are not fashionable.

 

Yep. I just said that. 

 

I suspect the original notion arose out of a whisper campaign from straight men. “Yo, bro. Watcha doin’ wearing designer clothes? You gay?” 

 

Portraying the gays as fashionistas was the excuse men needed for not giving a damn. A pricey shirt would put a dent in beer money. Fuck that. Why let a new wardrobe get in the way of football tickets and a versatile jersey, allowing you to pretend you’re AIKMAN (a garage sale steal!), BRADY or MAHOMES as you shop for a bigger toolbox at Home Depot?

 

Deep fake from the dudes. The concept had nothing at all to do with gay men. It was a scheme to validate being a slob, based on an injection of homophobia. (Presumably, metrosexuals were early anti-vaxxers before that got taken over.) 

 

From four decades out of the closet, homo closets aren’t noticeably more stylin’ than straight men’s. Maybe the difference is we use hangers. For every stylish gay man, there are ten who aren’t. I’ve been to gay pubs. I’ve had umpteen coffee dates. I see the photos on Grindr…the ones with clothing. (Less Shows More has never gone out of vogue.)

 

I don’t know how to classify myself these days. Pushing sixty—that’s so hard to type, but I refuse to lie and acquiesce to the pressures of ageism—I don’t need to give a flip about fashion. What the hell would I do with a badge? What the hell would I do with a boyfriend? I’d only lose both.

 

The good thing about a good number of decades being in the rearview mirror is that no one expects me to set a style standard. To those of a certain age for whom fashion is still seemingly of vital importance, I am absolutely invisible. I say that with a mix of humph and hurrah. Finally, I can embrace a quote from Marlo Thomas—“Who?” Never mind. Go back to watching your fave TikTok style influencer. I can say to myself and my aging gay brethren, we’re “free to be you and me.” 

 

Happy dance! (I recommend you celebrate that declaration, shimmying to this song. (Maybe stretch first.))

 

A few days ago, CBC ran a “news” item entitled, “Apparently, ankle socks are the new sign that you’re old, and millennials are done.” (I assume articles like this are offered as easier consumption for readers who don’t care to grasp the reasons for a carbon tax and are bored with “that stuff in Ukraine.”) I clicked because, only two hours prior, I’d bought three new pairs of offending socks. What compelling reason was there for me to surrender my purchase to my nonagenarian neighbor?

 

Good grief, skinny jeans and the hair with a side part were passé as well.

 

Cancel culture has gone too far! 

 

But, yes, isn’t fashion constitute the forefather of cancel culture?

 

Penalty: Oblivion!

The most humbling takeaway—okay, I found it humorous—from the article was Gen Z wrath didn’t even apply to me. They were calling out “30- and 40-somethings.” Okay, then. I’m wearing a pair of my new ankle socks as I write this. #TeamClarkGable! (“Who? What? Um...you should not be hashtagging.”) 

 

Sometimes the fashionistas get it wrong. So glad I never felt the slightest pressure to wear cargo pants, Crocs or ripped jeans which then evolved to jeans with giant knee holes. 

 

The one constant is every fashion trend has an expiration date and an objective indicator for time of death is when the trend is embraced by forty-somethings or teens in Taos or Tulsa. (Oh, Taos. I will miss you for many reasons but not the hair, makeup or clothes.)

 

I still care about how I look. I don my glasses as I scoot closer to the bathroom mirror, ready to mow down ear hair and rogue eyebrow strands before they curl. 

I don’t ever pull out a favorite garment from the dirty clothes hamper. (Once you pass twenty-five, you should have a hamper, guys. Your stinky gym gear does not belong in a hump on the floor, the guest chair or strewn on your otherwise empty (gasp!) bookshelf.) I throw out socks with holes and undies with tears below the waistband. (No corresponding story to warrant saving them as a souvenir.) 

I like matchy clothes. (Alas, they don’t make Garanimals in adult sizes.) 

Trends for spring/summer '24
according to British GQ.
100% I can't carry off any of them.

I love color, even if it’s not this year’s designated palette. For Spring/Summer 2024, Vogue France is big on “futuristic silver” and “transparency” as in see-through—Aack! Sparkles, too. Not a color but a reason to be glad I’m not twenty-two. I can’t carry off any shirt transparency—retro shout-out to Less Shows More?—any better than I can adopt a French accent.

 

I care about what I like. What everyone else thinks? Not so much. 

 

Whew. It’s about damn time.

 

 

THE DAY THE FASHION DIED

I didn’t start out in this world with a sense of fashion. My first influences—my parents—have probably never fit Yves Saint Laurent, Coco Chanel or Giorgio Armani into any conversation. My earliest memories of my mother’s glamor involved muumuus and wigs. My father stuck to suits and standard ties with diagonal stripes. Shoe polish was important but it came with connotations of labor instead of shine. At some point in my youth, my mother took a continuing education sewing class at the local high school and that brought on a mortifying period of making matching t-shirts for my brother and me, dressing us as twins even though I was three years older. Luckily all evidence of this “trend” in our household is in my father’s slide collection which no one has ever transferred to photos or any other kind of easily viewed humiliation. Lying around somewhere is an actual photograph of my brother and me sporting Budweiser tees at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida, as macaws perched on our elbows. Classy stuff.

 

My first personal fashion choices were copycat clothes based on what my peers wore: disco shirts, a pair of platform shirts and nearly knee-high tube socks that I liked because a few horizontal stripes of color looked crisper against bright white. (I could have scripted and starred in my own Tide commercial.) “Bucking the trend” for me meant preferring Lee jeans to Levi’s. Mostly, I remained a follower. Skintight Calvin Kleins. Jordache. Velour shirts. Izods. Polos. The fashion industry needs followers. I was still my awkward self, but I was at least a geek in Calvins. No one asked me if I was Amish. That was my fashion bar.  

 

By the time I hit eighteen—An adult? Me?!—a few more personal preferences had crept in. Wimbledon-worthy K-Swiss tennis shoes. A WilliWear shirt that felt as comfy as a pajama top. Perry Ellis spread collar dress shirts. I was a closeted gay guy in Texas who figured I might as well make that closet look nice. 

 

Gays were into fashion, right? I bought GQ to look at the fashion ads (and unsmiling, impossibly chiseled models’ faces). International Male tracked me down—did they have gaydar?—trying to entice me into buying skimpy, colorful undies and oddly cut shirts that looked stunning on their own crop of unsmiling, impossibly chiseled models—the faces and the hairless bodies. I never got duped. I knew I couldn’t carry off those garments with my goofy smile and my non-chiseled everything. 

 

My first year out of college, I taught at a private special education school outside of Dallas. It was my dream job, but the pay was a pittance—less than. I moonlit as a sales associate at Sanger-Harris, a higher end department store, at least the one at the recently razed Valley View Center in Dallas. I loved the shifts when I was assigned to the Guess/Generra/Claiborne collections and felt it was a personal affront whenever my manager stuck me in Ocean Pacific, Levi’s or, gross, Haggar. I began to understand a fashion hierarchy and spent my breaks zipping over to Bloomingdale’s (snootier than Sanger-Harris) to fondle Armani clothes. Yes, they felt amazing! It took me many paychecks before I could buy a coveted Armani sweater which I still have and wear once each winter.

 

RIP, Fred Segal, Santa Monica.

I found my own favorite brands and styles. Girbaud jeans. Paul Smith shirts. Guess watches. Cole Haan and Kenneth Cole shoes. Moving to L.A., I fell in love with Hugo Boss, a few label-subtle Tommy Hilfiger offerings and hip stores like Ron Ross, George’s on Melrose and, especially, Fred Segal in Santa Monica where I bought a pair of purple and green paisley socks and sought out an Italian shirt and shoes plus a Hugo Boss suit and tie to match them. The fact the look began with socks felt insane. I understood fashion!      

 

When I moved to Vancouver, I landed a job in a men’s boutique on trendy Robson Street, but it was a temporary gig. I got back into teaching and there wasn’t a need to dazzle ten-year-olds, the girls having an indiscriminating affinity for pink and Hello Kitty, the boys wearing the same Pokémon sweatshirts for days on end. I’d also come to realize that the stereotype about gays having impeccable fashion taste was vastly overstated. They followed the flock, wearing tank tops, jean shorts and Doc Martens or, worse, construction boots. The misguided independents wore passé Cosby-style sweaters and, on one first date, a Batman t-shirt. ZOWIE! KLONK! My fashion sense was bound to wane.

 

It might have been a gradual thing, but seitan (or something like that) finally did me in. It happened when I went for dinner with Ron, my closest friend in Vancouver. We have plenty in common except for food. Picking a restaurant has been a constant challenge.

  

For the first decade I knew him, there always seemed to be a fight in him, needing to resist my personal choice as a vegetarian, wanting to assert the supremacy of meat eating. So often after I’d order a meal—pasta primavera is what every restaurant served the “difficult” diners back then—he’d enter a one-way debate about the absurdity, even the hypocrisy, of being vegetarian. What was sushi if it was just seaweed and rice? Why did vegetarians eat veggie “burgers”? Couldn’t they come up with their own cuisine? Kale is just roughage. “Kale chips” are NOT a thing!

 

The gift I couldn't ignore.

His breaking point came after my 40^th birthday, when another friend gave me a vegan cookbook and, as I randomly flipped pages as a performative measure to demonstrate my excitement about the gift—So thoughtful! I LOVE it! (I hate birthdays.)—my eyes fixed on an unknown term in the glossary. A certain binding ingredient wasn’t vegan. It wasn’t even vegetarian. 

 

Cheese suddenly became very complicated and basically a no-go at restaurants since staff were as unfamiliar with the complicating term as I had been. It meant cheese-less pizzas which continues to baffle helpful servers (as recently as last week) who assume I’m making a mistake. It unnecessarily draws out my order. It’s like a spotlight is cast on me and an alarm has been triggered. WARNING: WEIRDO DETECTED. I’m mortified. I don’t like attention. I love When Harry Met Sally, but I never want to be compared to Sally when she orders food. After the server escapes, I’m met with an oft-asked question by people at my table: “Why can’t you eat cheese?” 

 

It's tasty, I swear. Usually, my
friends look away. The horror!

If I were smarter, I’d say I’m lactose intolerant, someone would say, “You poor thing” and we’d resume talking about the perks of working from home or movies only one person at the table has seen because everyone has different streaming channels. But I’m dutifully honest. If someone asks, I assume they are genuinely curious. (As an introvert, I abhor inane chitchat, including longwinded takes on movies only one of us has seen.) My dinner companions prod when I try to brush things off with, “It’s complicated.” I explain. Ron’s heard it all umpteen times. Nowadays, he jumps in and gives the explanation, the disdain almost disguised.

 

When I first had to abstain from public cheese consumption, it was a step too far for Ron. I’d become radicalized. I’d insulted pizza. I’d become a mocking sympathizer of the truly unfortunate souls who are lactose intolerant. 

 

Ron loves food. His memories are always first about the food. I’m sure he saw the Eiffel Tower and The Louvre in Paris, but every recollection is about the baguettes. (He rhapsodizes over them!) Dallas is about a slice of pecan pie he once had. Any mention of the province of Ontario leads to a reference to a butter tart served at a particular law school cafeteria. When I went on a recent epic hike last month in Washington, his first response was, “Did you stop at the place with the sausage breakfast sandwich?” 

 

While my cheese choice in no way kiboshed his opportunities to talk at length about gorgonzola—it comes up annually, out of the blue—he’d had enough veggie-babble. He went for the jugular. He made a show of shifting in his seat and peeking under the table before saying, “If you’re a vegetarian, why are your shoes leather?”

 

It had been asked before. By others seeking to find fault in vegetarianism, even by Ron. It was the Achilles’ heel in what he saw as my sanctimonious dietary nonsense. I responded as I had before, “I don’t eat shoes.” We moved on to other topics, finding common ground on something about Will & Grace or Roger Federer’s rapid rise in tennis. But I knew I had a shoe problem.

 

I’d never bought a leather jacket or, god forbid, leather pants. These were style statements that didn’t fit my clean, conservative look. I would never make a transformation like Olivia Newton-John’s Sandy Olsson in Grease. I would never get a leather sofa or buy a car with a leather interior. All these things involved too much (dead) cow. But I’d told myself leather was unavoidable in some contexts. Belts. Watch bands. Shoes. I could not live in flip flops and running shoes. Neither option was professional, even for teachers. 

 

I couldn’t shrug things off anymore. My fashion would have to take a hit. 

 

Fun but never sophisticated.

I gave away the Guess watches. (The brand was out of style anyway.) I found an online company and ordered vegan belts—not some hippie-dippy kind, woven from hemp and dried corn husks (relax…I made that up), but pleather, available in only black or one shade of brown. I bought a few pleather dress shoes as well which came off as much like the real thing as vegan cheeze. (Not that well at all.) I started my Converse shoe collection which now stands at thirty-six pair. I love ’em. They make me happy. But they don’t signalize classy like my dearly departed Cole Haans or Kenneth Coles or other treasures I must overlook at Nordstrom. 

 

So there it is. I live a more authentic life. My values are better aligned. But there’s a reason my Instagram is all about mountain hikes and quirky urban discoveries and not my outfit du jour. My quest to be a gay fashion icon got short-circuited by marinara pizza—all tomato sauce, Kalamata olives, basil and, hopefully, a damned good crust. I don’t freak out if the sauce splatter on my clothes. It is, after all, just a shirt. 

WHAT NOT TO WEAR—GYM EDITION

Okay, first off, full disclosure. I do not wear tank tops. I simply cannot carry off the look.

It goes back to when I was twenty, jogging along a less traveled road in a Dallas suburb on a Saturday afternoon. I’d just bought a teal Calvin Klein tank top as part of my new running gear. It was a daring purchase. At the time, I was completely devoid of biceps. The only noticeable bump between shoulder and wrist was a dry, boney elbow. But I was pie-eyed optimistic. My arms would grow into it, I told myself.

Five minutes into the run, a car passed, windows down. I don’t recall the exact message the passengers yelled but, without a doubt, they were mocking me.

It could have been for a number of reasons—my awkward stride, my acne-riddled face, my chicken legs—but I surmised it was a tank top taunt. Confirmation that I had no business wearing the shirt. I cut short my jog and retreated for home. The tank top remained at the bottom of a drawer until I readied for my next move when I dropped it off at a clothing donation bin. Let a homeless guy rock it in his Calvins.

That incident has led to bicep envy. Over the years, I’ve watched men successfully carry off the tank top look, doing fewer reps with lighter weights. While I’ve made gains, I still have reluctant biceps.

My recent month long stay in West Hollywood immersed me in an all tank top gym. It was the unwritten dress code. On each visit, I was one of the half dozen sad-sacks that donned a regular t-shirt, mine hanging over my body like a poncho. I told myself I was being non-conformist, a muscle tease, a rebel. Not that anyone noticed. Not with all those bulging biceps.

My first weekend workout spawned culture/clothing shock. At my small town gym, no guy would ever lift weights in a lilac or peach tank top, but I spotted both. I’ll admit to spending the rest of the month on the lookout for a lilac tank in clothing stores. If I ever dared trying the tank again, why not do it in a festive color and wash it repeatedly with Febreze-scented Tide? Why not sniff the shoulder strap for a refreshing whiff to fend off the stench of man sweat?

Aside from the range of color, the design of the tanks caught my eye. These were not standard tanks. These were thong tanks, a dire scarcity of fabric. The straps dipped low, fully revealing men’s pecs. I don’t think a man’s nipples should be exposed in a shirt any more than a woman’s should. If you’ve got the body and you must flaunt it, just rip your shirt off and sun yourself as soon as you exit the gym. Go ahead, cause a traffic accident. Isn’t that the ultimate ego boost?

The sides were also fabric free, coming together only at the waistline. Between front and side profiles, nothing was left to the imagination. Call it the peek-a-boo shirtless look.

Admittedly, most of the men had bodies worth showing off, but it seemed too much. The twenty-somethings could get away with it, but it smelled of desperation for guys in their thirties, forties and fifties. Why didn’t someone put an expiration date on the thong tank label? Along with WARNING: Entire shirt may get lost in dryer lint basket, add Best before 30.   

It reminds me of female pop stars. In their twenties, Lady Gaga, Rihanna and Miley Cyrus try to push the envelope, exposing as much flesh as possible, making censors earn their pay. But when Madonna continues to flash audiences in her fifties, it seems a little tired, doesn’t it? She needn’t be wearing turtlenecks, but age is supposed to bring a modicum of restraint.

Just because you can wear a thong tank doesn’t mean you should. Still, these men were better attired than the frizzy haired man in the camouflage FLOSS OR DIE t-shirt. And I probably looked more ridiculous in my poncho tee, but as the car hecklers of yesteryear made clear, I am not the workout fashion god. I’d just like to think an athletic forty-five-year-old man would look so much sexier in a form fitting t-shirt that catches one’s eye without giving it all away.

What do you think? Am I too conservative/modest to be gay? Am I still scarred from an ancient tank top misfire? Has rural life nuked my appreciation of a little exhibitionism? I cling to the hope I still have some fashion sense.

IF THE SHOE FITS

A friend of mine once pointed out the inconsistency in my vegetarianism and the fact I was wearing a pricey pair of leather shoes. I ignored this point for awhile. One man can only do so much, right? Wrong. Eventually, I gave up all things leather—watchbands, belts, shoes.

That friend and I are no longer speaking.

I have ordered shoes online for years now. The selection is dreary. The joy of a great shoe find is gone. And so when I ventured into the Nike Running store at The Grove in L.A. to buy a new jogging outfit, my eyes drifted toward the shoe section. I looked away, but then returned to blatant, lustful ogling. I eyed one pair, knowing it would go perfectly with a lot of my gym gear. I touched it. I picked it up. I could not detect any trace of leather, suede or whatever other cow residue goes into footwear.

I had to ask. Sure enough, all synthetic mesh stuff. No. Animal. Product.

I asked the employee if she had it in a size ten. “Uh, I just work the register.” Yes, in my urgent need to know, I had taken the shoe far from the shoe section, too impatient to wait for someone to reappear from the back.

I returned to the designated area and dutifully sat as a high maintenance woman questioned Shoe Guy. In retrospect, she probably wasn’t high maintenance at all. But she stood between me and shoe freedom.

When I finally had Shoe Guy’s attention, I blurted, “Do you have this in a 10?”

His response startled me. “Let me give you the gay test so I can make sure you’ve got the right shoe.”

A flurry of thoughts converged in my brain within the next split second. Is this allowed? Can they discriminate based on sexual orientation? California just got gay marriage back. Is shoe equality still on the agenda? Is my desired shoe too masculine? Am I not masculine enough?

“It just takes a few moments. Step on the treadmill.”

I remained speechless, the thoughts still racing. What business is it for him if I walk a certain way:? I’ve been wearing shoes for most of my forty-eight years and worked through my blister moments just fine. Didn’t I pass the gay test years ago?

Detecting my resistance, Shoe Guy said, “Let’s measure your foot first.”

“I’m a 10.” The shoe department is the only place in the world I’m allowed to say that. He insisted on measuring. Suddenly, my perfect number was in doubt.

10. Yep, still got it.

Again, I held up my shoe. Still, he doubted me. “The gay test is the best way to make sure you get the right shoe.”

I could no longer hide my frown or my exasperation. “I just want to try this on. I’m a 10.” As we’d clearly established. The shoe area was drawing a crowd of back-to-school shoppers so Shoe Guy stopped his invasive quest. The shoes fit, I paid and I left, my great shoe discovery slightly tainted by the odd ordeal I underwent.

It was only as I paid for my parking that I realized there had been a simple miscommunication. Gay test. Gait test.

I

felt like Emily Litella, that classic Gilda Radner character who got all rattled about a push for Violence in Schools when the issue was actually Violins in Schools and questioned the fairness of the deaf penalty when talk had been about the death penalty. What’s all this fuss about a gay test just to buy a pair of shoes. It’s terrible. Haven’t gay people had enough discrimination? ... Gait test?! Oh, that’s different. Never mind.

What I really need is a hearing test.

SHOPPER UNLEASHED

It’s a stereotype to say gay men like to shop and, as I’ve learned from years of bad dates, totally unfounded to say gay men have a superior sense of fashion. At least, Vancouver gay men don’t fall into stereotype at all.

But behind every stereotype, there is a kernel of truth. And I would be most proud to be part of that truth. Shallow? Sure, but I like to feel good about how I look and, as my workouts fail to produce results, the bulk of feeling good about how I look stems from what I wear.

I think my fashion quest began during my first year of teaching in Texas. Because I wasn’t a U.S. citizen, I couldn’t teach in public schools—something about a Supreme Court decision upholding the fear that a non-citizen might teach children Communist beliefs (because all Canadian were and are pro-Communism). Anyway, in the private school, I was earning less than $12,000 a year and I quickly grew tired of alternating meals between Wonder Bread and peanut butter and generic boxed macaroni and cheese.

I got a second job, working in the men’s department at Sanger Harris, a fairly upscale Dallas department store that no longer exists. As it turned out, I kept the same meal menu because all the money I earned at Sanger Harris went back to Sanger Harris. With the employee discount, I made off with some good deals!

Fast forward to my first stint in L.A. as I began law school. Whenever my parents called, I failed to convey enthusiasm about my studies. In fact, I was unhappy. I wanted to quit. This got their attention. My mother had never been keen about my becoming a teacher. She was gleeful when I decided to go back to school, desperate to tell her bridge and golf partners that her eldest was a lawyer.

And so I negotiated a clothing allowance for several hundred dollars a month for as long as I stayed in law school. Would it make me happy? Well, it was a good start.

I have been fashion deprived since moving to Vancouver. Everyone talks about Robson Street as this fashion mecca, but I think it’s overrated. When I shop, it’s hit or miss,...mostly miss. Not so in L.A.

It took less than forty-eight hours for me to head over to the Beverly Center. (Wouldn’t you know, the bungalow where I am staying is only three blocks away!) I sauntered into the Macy’s Men Store with the intent to buy a couple of pairs of shorts—I’d forgotten how hot it is here—and I made three trips to the fitting room before walking out of the store with seventeen new items.

If I’m going to do L.A., I’m going to do it right.

There are more shopping destinations, but I’m laying low for the rest of the week. I am all too aware that my shopping surge wasn’t just about feeling overheated in blue jeans. It goes beyond the lackluster Vancouver fashion scene. It’s largely a response to living in a rural area where there is only one place to shop for men’s clothes in town and that place specializes in lumberjack wear and construction boots. Seriously.

So let me immerse myself in men’s fashion once again. I won’t regain my stereotypically strong fashion sense in four short weeks, but a little self-improvement is always a good thing.

Fashion Flutter or Clutter?

I'm in Victoria for a few days of relaxation. And shopping. Even though I had a talk with myself about restraint and responsible spending on the ferry ride over, I went berserk today. I'd held out for two days, but this being my final full day in an urban environment, I caved.

I needed a new Speedo for my length swimming in the community pool back home. They do not sell Speedos in my area. Frankly, I was worried that my old suit was perhaps a little too faded from all the chlorine. Had the locals been talking? I bought two new swimsuits instead of one--a minor extravagance.

I also wanted to buy a new pair of casual shoes for weekend walks. I narrowed it down to three styles. That's where the narrowing process stopped. I bought all three pairs. Lucky they had my size in each!

Multiple fever also hit when I bought a new dress shirt and decided to buy several matching ties. No one but me would ever notice, but it always feels good to mix things up with my work attire.

The stumbling block came when I searched for a few casual tees to freshen up my spring wardrobe. Here's the thing: when did scribbles on fabric become a fashion forward men's t-shirt?! Yeah, the scribbles may actually be some vague message in cursive or a three-line word (e.g., Un--spok--en), but I'm not all that comfortable with strangers staring at my chest and abs long enough to crack the code. (Face it,...it's never the right strangers who stare!) Apparently, butterflies and leaves are trendy too. Whether it's scribbles, flying insects or tree discards, it all amounts to a cluttered mess. Today, I also bought a box of thank you cards with a leafy pattern on the front cover. Maybe I should tape one to a Hanes undershirt and prepare to walk the runways of Paris. Sure, I know I don't have the ridiculously high cheekbones or the heroin addict body, but JUST LOOK AT THOSE LEAVES! Aren't they falling artfully?

I bought a solid black and a solid brown tee and locked up my credit card in the glove compartment. Neither I nor my rural environs are ready for Paris yet.