"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.