I Looked in the Mirror, and I Saw God

Today I tied the perfect half Windsor. The knot was just slightly asymmetrical, there was a nice dimple, and the tip of the tie just barely broke the top of my belt buckle. I did it on my first try. It’s my maroon club tie. It bears the logo of a proud institution that I can finally sport with legitimacy. It isn’t aspiring, it is earned.

I don’t think shoes have to be earned but it took me forever to find the right ones. They are brown slip on loafers. Not Weejuns, or the normal penny loafers. The seams around the top of the shoe turn inside making them just a little sleeker. They ride that thin line between formal and casual. Forever all I could find were either frat boy moccasins or Euro genie shoes. Thank you eBay. Of course my brown leather belt matches.

I have on flat front cotton khakis. They reach right to the top of my shoe, covering my socks but not touching the ground, no break in the pant leg at all. This was luck. Even when I have had pants hemmed they never get it perfect. They still pool on the shoes or sag in the seat. This pair came right off the rack. Serendipity.

I rarely if ever use a comb, just fingers. The key isn’t the comb, it is the product. I’ve gone through gels, mousses, pomades. Some just didn’t have the hold, others held but turned flaky by mid-day. I don’t want wet and glossy, nor bed head, just a nice mid ground that looks tidy but with a little style. I’m too old, to responsible to do anything wild, but I’m not quite ready to give up and have hair that is just blah. So the idea is to do the blah doo but with fingers instead of a comb. With the right product it works. At least it works for what I want and today I got it right.

I shaved and did not cut myself. Not on my neck next to my Adam’s apple, not at the corners of my mouth. Not only did I not cut myself but I shaved in record time and managed to still erase that pesky little patch right under my nose. That spot where nose and upper lip meet. The one that no razor built by man can quite fit. Today I got it.

I buttoned down the collar on my powder blue shirt, and took a step back to take it all in. Perfect. After all these years of wandering in sartorial ignorance, being swayed by cargo pants or t shirts, being wooed by four button suit jackets or chunky soled Doc Marten’s, I finally figured it out. I nailed it. Today I was top to bottom happy with what I put on.

Then, when I reached for my jacket, I turned just a little sideways. It ruined everything.

That dreaded ballooning a shirt makes when tucked in, the one you should buy slim or fitted shirts to avoid, was full of me. Balloons are full of air, this was full of me. My stomach hung out over my belt buckle like some cornice; an avalanche just on the brink of happening.

Seriously!?

It wasn’t always like that. That thing, that baggage, that waistline that isn’t really me, it is a some-thing, not a part of a some-one. It isn’t me, it is just some passenger that stowed away while I was busy with other things. It used to be I could not only not find the right shoes, but I couldn’t afford them. I could never afford them so much so that even if I had money I had no idea what I should be buying. I was in the wrong shoe wearing the wrong shirt, in the wrong fit, but on the perfect body.

This body had its own reputation.

Every bit of it was solid. Large in the chest and shoulders, slim in the waist and wrists. I was maybe a little thick in the ankles but massive enough in the calves to balance it out. While I may not have been clothed very well, I had a great form to fit. My form wasn’t the best part of that body of old, the best part was what it could do.

It was never all that fast but it was quick. Nimble. That body could run forever and lift anything. It could bend any which way, needed very little rest, and no matter what I did, it bounced right back. It just was. Because of it I rode bikes, swam in rivers, climbed mountains. I ran, tackled, punched, and got hit right back. That body was fantastic.

That body was 18 years old.

Looking in the mirror today I saw God.

God is not in the tie I earned, those perfect shoes, or even in that once fantastic body. I saw God right at the moment when I realized I had tied the perfect half Windsor. I began to swell with pride. I began to become full of myself. Then I stepped back and saw how my midsection had swelled and the results of filling my plate 100 times too many. I came crashing right back down like Icarus.

To me that was God.

It was the same God that kept that perfect body wearing the wrong clothes and wracked with insecurity. That perfect body could never find the perfect hair product, or even the right haircut. It wore knock off brands and could never quite figure out what was going wrong.

I have finally found the right haircut, but it has come complete with nose and ear hair.

Such is the justice of God.

It is God because it keeps me grounded in reality.

Real.

Like God.

Real like spare tires and zits. Real like sports cars and divorces, bankruptcy and the birth of your first child.

Real, like important things.

Now do not get me wrong, my health is important, and how I dress can greatly affect how I am treated by the world and therefore influence how effectively I function in that world. But O how easily am I distracted by myself. My tastes my ideas, my hopes and my soul crushing insecurities. How easy is it for me to forget that I am not more important than you, and how one looks should not influence how I feel about them. Looks can be either an expression of self or a distraction from truth, and I cannot tell which is which from just looking.

Neither can you.

Not that beauty is bad. I love line shapes and color, in nature, in art, in people. I love it in me, and in you, and in them. But getting in too deep is like eating nothing but the frosting off a cake. It is wonderful but your teeth will eventually hurt and your sugar high will come down. Frosting has no substance without the cake.

Dessert can be damaging without the meal.

My big round belly beneath a perfect half Windsor knot reminded me of that meal.

God didn’t curse me with fat. I did that. What God has done is bless me with a reminder that paint needs to be spread on canvas to mean anything.

My perfect shoes are stupid unless my feet are standing in the right place. The break in my pant leg is invisible unless I stand up. The perfect hair product is pointless if my head is empty.

On the other hand, making the mistake of matching your pocket square perfectly with your tie and not your shirt, is less important than whether or not that handkerchief is over a heart filled with hope.

That being said, your pocket square should match your shirt if it is going to match anything at all. I didn’t know that till after I got fat.

J Press Redeems Itself: or at least that one guy did

Walking past the Washington D.C. Brooks Brothers ‘Gatsby’ window felt like Halloween. I like some of what I saw but getting dressed shouldn’t be playing dress up.

A few blocks further down I felt like I was looking at a lackluster meal. The kind with all the right ingredients, a lot of labor, that just doesn’t turn out right. Not a bad meal at all yet still a huge disappointment. Remembering Cambridge, I inhaled and stepped inside.I was dressed much like last time, flat front khakis, blue button down, tan v neck, solid blue tie.

A man behind the counter said something along the lines of “hello.”

I explained I was just looking a little but mostly wasting time he replied that he thought that was great and to enjoy myself.

Panama hats are obviously a thing right now. I saw one that might suit me, picked it up to maybe try it on, when a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out the window. Outside was a little old woman sporting that Panama hat. The man chuckled and in a heavy accent said, “I guess it is summer time.”

While staring at cuff links a man asked, “which ones were you looking at?” I told him which ones I liked but that I was on strict orders to buy nothing. He smiled and said he understood.

He had grey longish hair. Not long enough to tuck behind an ear but enough to pass the collar in the back. I’m sure he must have had some wrinkles but his face, his eyes perhaps, seemed young. He was not bothered by me and I consequentially relaxed.

What he did next was remarkable.

A young black man walked into the store wearing shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. The salesman looked up, smiled a hello, and went right back to our conversation.

I wandered off on my own and the salesman directed a cheerful, “how are you doing today?” to the guy wearing Air Jordans. He did not tailgate the guy, hover over his shoulder, not did he ignore him in hopes he would go away. It was almost the same greeting I got, perhaps a little friendlier as the guy in the hood was a little nicer than I was.

By the time I walked away those two were chatting away. The black man had just gotten a job at a local shoe store, the sales rep knew everyone there, including the one who had just left. The black man knew every make of shoe imaginable but wanted a new suit. “well, you obviously aren’t working today. I’m sure {insert female name of shoe store boss here} wouldn’t have you walking in dressed like this?”

“Naw. I have today off,” he chuckled.

Maybe it was just Spring or perhaps not having your location listed on the corporate logo strips away the pretension. Whatever it was, this location was not like the last. Maybe it was just the grey haired guy with the young eyes but when I left there that day I wished I had money to spend.

I liked the clothes better, the sun was a little brighter, and I felt better about me.

Those two were still chatting when I left. I have no idea if a suit was purchased but I’m sure the newly minted shoe salesman will be back.

Me too.

I am One of “Them” and so are “They”

I am not an expert on clothing. The Trad’s fascination with my footwear will tell you as much, yet I would wager I spend more time thinking about clothing than your average man. The level to which I fail in clothing myself properly yet still appear more focused on doing so than normal, says something about the sartorial state of the modern American male, but I don’t think it is completely our own fault.

Take for example a recent experience.

Much has been said and written about the Ivy style and the traditional brand J. Press. I recently found myself in the neighborhood. I was in town for business at the University and was wearing a charcoal suit, sky blue shirt, and straight fold blue pocket square; nothing groundbreaking but no visible mistakes (cue shoe joke here). I stepped inside.

The shop is beautiful. Orderly racks of jackets and coats intermixed with collegiate memorabilia. I would have loved to spend hours just touching the tweeds and checking the dates on old deflated footballs. A grey haired man near the register was roused from his boredom by my entry and giving me a once over asked, “Can I help you?”

I had no money. I would be buying nothing and felt a little ashamed because of it. Not wanting to be too intrusive on a business I replied, “I just wanted to look around and check things out a bit.” He shrugged a “very well” and went about fidgeting with folded sweaters whatever else. He did surprisingly well at lingering around but avoiding anything close to eye contact or, heaven forbid, a smile.

I made a couple rounds of the racks, touching very little, thanked the man and walked out of the store. What fools the two of us were that day. Yes, both of us.

The man showed little to no interest in me or my business, which is fair as I was not likely to be business that day. But that once over and his curt manner did not communicate helpfulness but rather he was the steward of something to be protected from outside intrusion and in our case it felt as if he was more of a security guard at a museum watching to make sure I didn’t cross the velvet rope and touch the paintings.

I didn’t need a security guard I needed a docent, a tour guide.

Perhaps he would have been one but when I looked at the crusty old man I froze. My normal bold self retreated. Not only did I refrain from asking my long list of questions but I lost all desire to ask. I had small things like wanting to know if the stripes and colors on the scarves represented schools, which I know they do, but which represents who, I have no idea. I would like to know. I like hats. I also have one of the largest heads on the planet and am conformist enough to not want to look like I’m headed for a costume party. In that store was a long table piled high with head wear options and I didn’t touch a single one.

I should have asked. I could have asked but I didn’t.

I am surely not the only one struggling with personal insecurity and sartorial ignorance. It is a shame, and this is not the only such store where I have experienced this, that those who man the floor of such a menswear legends are repellent rather than receptive.

So what do I do now? Maybe I go to the Gap or some other affordable box where teenagers flirt with each other and expect me to unfold the entire stack of sweaters. I’m sure young Tiffany would be happy to tell me what Sarah thinks is so “way cute” for old guys like me to wear… which means my ignorance, and the ignorance of all like me, will continue.

Growing Ivy, Yale

DV IMAGE — I'm sure this is a statue of some Roman God that those who underwent a classical education could identify. I simply looked and thought, "I bet the Y is for Yale".

Yale University was founded in 1708 by a group of ten Harvard Alumni. For this favor the forefather’s alma mater has received nothing but grief.

Yale University found its way into my home in roughly 2001 when the touted witty dialogue of the Gilmore Girls captivated my wife, who then held the remote captive. For this I tried to give her grief, but I was unable to reclaim either the remote or my manhood.

When I rolled into New Haven I found myself in the company of countless other adults who were there to collect their recent graduates. Youngish looking people still wearing cap and gown were lounging about on lawns, loafer wearing men with grey hair stood by cars on curbs as preppy looking youth loaded said cars with mini fridges and aspiration.

dorms — Yale's version of student housing.

Yale has always been a symbol of elitism be that good or bad. Maybe elitism is the wrong word, maybe exclusive would be better. Tom, in The Great Gatsby, was the unattainable ideal that Jay was reaching for. Tom went to Yale. Frank Merriwell, the early ideal in post pubescent fiction, played football and solved mysteries, while at Yale. Bill Clinton and G.W. Bush, along with three other U.S. presidents, went to Yale.

I can now also say, I went to Yale.

yaliesinblack — These guys also went to Yale. But they did not ask anyone for directions and looked like they knew what they were doing... I don't think they "went to Yale" in the same way I did.

One can not go to Yale and not go to J. Press.

jpressties — The standard for those espousing the preppy look.

The staff was more than helpful, the chair was comfortable, and the clothing was pastel and seersucker. I had been searching for over a year now, I must admit I was not doing so diligently, for a straw hat that balanced somewhere between fedora and broad-brimmed, that did not look miniature on my gargantuan head. I though such searches were pointless till I visited J. Press. I should have known that those who cater to Ivy kids would be able to accommodate my big head.

jpressyalechair — Sorry Cougars, the pillow isn't about you.

Wearing new head gear in public is always a test of courage. I found strange solace in the fact that despite how much more they paid for theirs, anything looks better than a mortar board.

yalemeatnathanhalehouse — Striking a pose next to a plaque marking the building in which Nathan Hale bunked while a student.

Now convinced that I cut a dashing figure, I went and dashed the mother of collegiate conspiracy theories. Well, maybe I didn’t dash anything, but I found it hard to be intimidated by the famous Skull and Bones when I arrived at their building to find it serving as the rest stop for two snow ball haired women who had reached their limit of pedestrian persuits.

skullnbonesbetter — The building the Skull and Bones calls home.

Overlooking New Haven is a large rock cliff crowned by a tower. As is the case with all peaks back east, this one was accessable by vehicle. Upon reaching the top I was treated to a fine view…

meonoverlook — Looking out over New Haven.

What I really meant when saying I found a fine view was this…

I took the picture and sent it to my wife with the text “Aaaaaw, young love.” To which she quickly responded, “People who like each other don’t sit that far apart.”

Kill Joy.

Well, if that wasn’t love, this is…