Just what in the fuck is an aging, white male supposed to wear fashionably in 2012? If you’re going to tell me khakis and a polo shirt, you can fuck right off with your business-casual agenda and have fun taking out that second mortgage to support your mid-life Corvette crisis. This, and only this, is the true plight of an American white man. I mean it, this is the only social shortcoming you are allowed to complain about as the most privileged and pampered, fleshy commodity on our planet. Nothing sends more rage-filled thoughts to my steaming brain than a white, American male harboring a major lack of understanding regarding his worldly privileges. If a white male complains about something, it should be his complete inability and ineptitude surrounding fashion. I’m admitting it right here: I probably dress like an asshole, and I’m completely unaware and oblivious in my doing so.
Have you ever seen that guy roaming the city streets with absolutely zero sense of what he’s doing with his life? You know the one; he’s mid-fifties, has a shabby-looking grey beard, shorts that reach about six inches above the knee, flaunting his pasty thighs, and white tube socks pulled straight up reaching some mysterious place once considered unattainable. I forgot to mention the white, gaudy sneakers. That guy is my biggest fear. I spent the latter part of my twenties and all of year thirty putting forth immense efforts in avoiding my becoming of that guy. He looks absolutely goddamned ridiculous, and the worst part is that he is blissfully unaware of the permanent mental damage he’s doing to anyone under the age of fifty that sees him in that sordid getup.
What about that other guy? The one with pleated khakis, that awful checker-patterned, button-down shirt tucked too tightly, the boring-as-ever penny loafers, that black belt mismatching his shoes. He’s probably in his early forties. I’m afraid of this guy, too. It’s all too easy to read exactly how this guy’s life is currently playing out: He has next to no passions, his job is anthropologically meaningless outside of the world we’ve created for him, his wife is equally as drab, and his kids are going through school without a hitch. If you read that sentence, the only word you may have been able to make out is this: BORING. I mean that equally sincerely as I hate the Republican party’s current political platform.
I can’t forget about the guy that is currently threatening the moral fabric of my now thirty-year old existence: Stone-washed jeans that were purchased already torn by some unfortunate child in a third world country, the excess of gel in his short, thorny hair, the chrome belt buckle complete with skull and crossbones, and the tucked in, worn-looking Affliction or Tapout shirt. Oh Christ, this guy. This guy is probably around my age. He probably drives a lifted truck that gets two miles to the gallon and dumps an industrial city’s worth of black smog all over your windshield as he peels out in front of you at the stop light. I fear this guy quite a bit less. Probably due to the fact that I’m already his age and I’m certainly not him. I don’t go to dance clubs looking for someone to molest, I wouldn’t ever call another man, “bro”, and the word “faggot” is something I can’t comprehend speaking out loud, let alone call someone.
I’m not saying fashion is directly responsible for your way of life, but it’s certainly linked to it. How you dress is a reflection of how you view yourself; how you want the world to perceive you at first glance. This is apparently a concept that these men just can’t grasp. So just what in the hell am I supposed to wear? I honestly have no idea. My girlfriend will tell you that possibly no other man in history has received more compliments on his shirts from other men. I have two modes: Safe mode and expression mode. In safe mode, I’ll put on a nice pair of jeans and couple that with a hint of button-down shirt. Possibly a plaid shirt if I’m feeling sassy. In expression mode, I’ll once again slip into some nice jeans. Only this time, I’ll wear a t-shirt with some kind of graphic printed on it. These can range from horror movie icons, video game references to bands. I try my hardest to stay away from band shirts at my age, but I just have so many old metal shirts that I can’t be bothered to toss in the trash. My jeans play it safe as well: They aren’t really skinny jeans, they’re just skinny jeans. I don’t know, maybe those are out of favor already, but I’m too old and fashionably inept to know the difference.
Perhaps my favorite place to man-purchase myself some fucking spectacular shirts is over here, at http://www.redbubble.com/ . Here I can find all of those old horror movie icons on a shirt and such. I picked up a super neat shirt there with a white mage and black mage from Final Fantasy facing each other as if to engage in mortal combat. Fashion for a man at thirty is just so damned tricky. I’m not suave enough to pull off some of the stuff I see on fashion sites, but I’m not boring enough to get myself some khakis and polo shirts. I’m not enough of a consummate douchebag to wear Affliction shirts and belt buckles, but I’m not old enough to just stop caring anymore either. Yep, tricky business indeed.
Disclaimer: I claim no responsibility for the consequences faced by following my guidance. I make no claims of being any sort of fashion guru and, in fact, I’m completely useless when it comes to it. Thanks for your time.