Fashion For Old Guys

SOMETIMES I HAVE A PROBLEM WITH AGE-APPROPRIATENESS. I HAVE A GOOD EXCUSE.

It’s hard being age-appropriate, you know? It’s a moving target. It’s hard in every area of life. But, it’s easy when you’re young. As a kid you go to an amusement park, there’s no wondering if a roller-coaster is age appropriate, there’s a cartoon character sign with his hand raised saying, “You must be this tall to ride this ride!” Everything from toys, to puzzles, to Pampers, to food is labeled for age-appropriateness.

Even the movies tell you if you need “PG” Parental-Guidance, or whether it is “R” rated, which basically means, “If your parents are too stupid to tell you you can’t see this movie, we will.” It may be time for a reworking of the movie rating system. I’m recommending a couple of new ratings: SA and CCR, which means if you’re a Senior Adult or a Conservative Christian Republican, you might want to pass on this one. Even for me, sometimes, today’s movies shock my sensibilities, and my standards are pretty low. I’m not a fan of graphic violence, super-hero-special-effects, and casual f-bombing for f-bombing’s sake, or movies starring Matthew McConaughey (It’s not personal, Matt).

For today’s post, I want to focus on one area of tricky age-appropriateness: How To Dress.

I believe I mentioned that I have a good excuse for struggling in this area; besides the fact that I’m an aging, softish, white guy, and we all struggle with this (or we just don’t care anymore). While I was still in my own adolescence/teen years/first coming-of-age, I started working with teens, first, at a junior high school in a counseling program as practicum for a college course. From there, I started in “youth ministry”—working with teens in a church setting. I continued that into my 50s and my second-coming-of-age.

So if we were to meet, and if I were to do something age-inappropriate, keep in mind, it’s not that I’m necessarily emotionally immature, just generationally confused. To this day I am much more comfortable hanging out with young people than I am with people my own age. I’m sure retired high school teachers and coaches can relate (unless you hated kids, which seems to be the case for a few teachers and coaches).

All of this contemplating age-appropriateness started when a sweetheart of a girl from the old youth group days sent me a link to an article about a reinvention of the famous and enduring Chuck Taylor Converse All-Star sneakers. She said something to the effect of: “I could see you wearing these.” I replied something like: “Heck yes! I need a pair.”

But then it dawned on me, should I be wearing Chucks, or is it time for the Rockports and Hush Puppies?

And, not just shoes. What about sock color, or socks at all? Should any man past puberty wear a tank top in public or anywhere other than a basketball court, regardless of physique, or one’s personal, unrealistic view of one’s own?

At this point in my life, only a couple of wardrobe issues are settled for me: boxers over briefs, and this: I just don’t feel comfortable in polo shirts. I do have one. I wear it to this place where I play my semi-annual golf game. They require it. That’s a problem because a lot of the old guys I know that look pretty dapper most of the time seem to do the polo shirt thing so well, most of the year. Somehow when I put on a polo and khakis, I feel like I should be selling TVs at Best Buy.

For many years I have been at my most comfortable in blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt (sleeves rolled up) and loafers (no socks) in spring, summer and early-autumn. Once the frost is on the pumpkin, the sleeves roll down or I pull over a sweater and switch to socks and chuka boots. Why I’m worrying about clothes choice is beyond me. Why our obsessions?

I guess I still care to the point that I don’t want to look like an old-guy cliche. You know; hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, sandals with socks. Here’s the thing, a lot of guys pull that off very well. It’s like they are so comfortable in their own skin that whatever they wear on that skin seems very authentic.

I also don’t want to appear to be struggling to hang on to some desperate sense of youthfullness. It’s not my fault that chuka boots have come back in to style (I think). I’m not some metrosexual wannabe.

Mostly though, I don’t want to embarrass my grand-girls. When I get home from a fun day out with them, and I look in the mirror and see that on my t-shirt that reads: “Medicare: Bring It On”, is a stain from the yogurt we had at Orange Leaf, and a smudge of grease from the pizza we had at Chuck E. Cheese, will I be embarrassed or will all that just be reminders of a wonder-full day?

At least my feet won’t hurt, because the new Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars I’ve been wearing have extra cusioning and arch  support. Thank you Paula Moore Gresham for the tip and for believing I can pull it off.

So, to all you grandkids and wives out there: any advice for us old guys? Keep this in mind: one thing I know for sure, I don’t want to look like one of those guys whose wife laid his clothes out for him.

Be Glad You're Not A Lion

I AM THANKFUL. And sometimes I am thankfuller (read this and that will make some sense).

For one thing I am thankful I was never drafted by the Detroit Lions.

Here’s the thing about being a drummer in a marching band in a very long parade—you get blisters, blisters that break and ooze and bleed. By the end of a parade your hands look something like a turkey leg bone after the big meal. While most of the band members play only occasionally during the course of the parade, the drum line must play the  e-n-t-i-r-e  time. 

I commented on this reality within ear shot of my high school band director; once. The former army drill sergeant-turned band director pulled the cigar from the corner of his mouth, stuck his baton into my chest and said, “Suck it up kid. It’s an occupational hazard.” (The cigar part may only be real in my over-dramatized remembrance of the event.)

Although I had no idea what an occupational hazard was, I now had a working definition. If I could find my Funk & Wagnalls I’m sure it would say something about a risk or condition inherent in a given occupation.

So before you decide to be a bass drummer in the marching band, count the costs. About three miles in, that sucker gets heavy and your hands will bleed, and your shoes will be covered in horse crap, because the band always get placed right behind the 100-members of the county stampede club.

It’s kind of like being drafted by the Detroit Lions. (Not that I would know anything about that.) Even though you’re excited, you will suddenly realize that, no matter what, you’ll have to work on Thanksgiving.

Since 1934, every Thanksgiving with a very few exceptions in the late-30’s, the Lions have played on Thanksgiving Day.

[image from rantsports.com used without permission]

Let me say to all the Detroit Lions and you poor people in retail who have to go in and work on Thanksgiving, “Suck it up kid. It’s an occupational hazard.” JUST KIDDING!

I’m sorry you have to work, but we need an NFL game to play in the background while we sleep, and apparently, some just can’t wait until Friday to get their shopping on.

Don’t blame me though, Wal-Mart associates. I’m not the reason you’re working on Thanksgiving (or any other day for that matter). And for that I’m thankful.

I am also thankful for some others, those who serve, who don’t get to have Thanksgiving off—like my youngest son. Because of his work with the less law-abiding of our citizenry, he has to be on duty. Apparently, like football and shopping; crime doesn’t take a holiday.

So, if you’re working on Thanksgiving, thank you. If it helps remember this: while your occupational hazard is costing you a day off, it is far less tragic than the hazard of the poor old turkey. 

Gobble-Gobble.

What A Day!

Mark it down. It's July 16th and the actual outside temperature is 72 degrees. If you're not from around these parts, that's about 30 degrees cooler than normal July temps.

Mark it down. It's July 16th and apparently Archie Andrews is dead. Well, not the real Archie, the perpetual teenager that loves both Betty and Veronica. The Archie that died is (or was) apparently a sort of What-If Archie, as in: what would have happened if Archie had grown up? What-If Archie had his own comic book series called "Life With Archie." Today issue #36 hit the marketplace. This issue tells how Archie died. I called every comic book store in town and they are all sold out.

Turns out that Archie as an adult was quite a character, but continued to have red-hair, freckles and a good heart. He was somehow married to both Betty and Veronica. He met his demise when he stepped between a gay senator and a gunman. The senator was making a speech about gun rights.

I didn't even know that Archie had grown up, or that comic books had grown up for that matter.

But don't be too sad, because, as I said, Archie was lucky enough to have two story lines. The "real" Archie is apparently still alive and still a teenager.

Maybe I have multiple story lines too. Except for me, in the real one I do become sort of adult-like, my joints hurt and I long for the good old days when there was peace in the middle east, when Democrats and Republicans got along -- you know fictional.

Well, RIP Archie, whoever you are. Maybe your teenage self could come for a visit. We have a "Pops" here just like you do in Riverdale. We could get a burger and Grapette and you could explain to me why you can't just admit that Betty is the better girl for you. Today would be a great day to visit because it's July 16 and only 72 degrees.

Just For Laughs

What old guy can't relate to this?  

From the September 9, 2013, issue of New Yorker.