Male vanity and the “new” masculinity.

These days, it’s pretty common to see men actively trying to be fashionable.  The bro-tastic image of a manly man is steadily giving way to a more metrosexual, dandified look and it’s actually kinda refreshing in my opinion.  Anything that cuts down on Affliction shirts and faux-distressed jeans is fine by me, as is any effort to kill Axe once and for all.  Although I don’t call myself a trendy or really fashionable guy, I like to think I’ve developed a sense of style and am able to dress myself pretty successfully.  I still kinda worry that some of the things I like are perceived to be too metro, or not manly enough, but I think as the hipsters take over my more questionable clothing choices will be masked by that fucking guy who’s wearing Malcolm X glasses, a straw top hat, and vintage bowling shirt with bright red skinny jeans.

However, there was a time when I didn’t particularly care how I looked, or never even really knew how I looked.  I just knew that I had glasses, black hair, and that I was tan; my mom worried about what I wore or when I started dressing myself, I just plucked whatever was at the top of the drawer.  Things were a lot simpler then, in the olden days of the mid-to-late 90’s.  No straw top hats or skinny jeans, even.  Actually, the late 90’s was right around when I began to start learning what to wear and not wear in public, and kinda like learning a new language, the process was slow, awkward, and full of mistakes.

My first glaring mistake was shoe-related.  In retrospect, I think this is why I’ve developed very strong feelings regarding shoes and what ends up on my feet.  If Freud could give it a name, I’d probably be labelled “pedal-retentive”.  Anyway, the shoes.  The shoes themselves weren’t actually all that bad; truth be told, I liked them when I first opened the box after coming back from school.  My mom bought them for me at Payless (yes, the discount shoe store.  What?  Her friend worked there and who really thinks that a six-year-old has any concept of shoe branding?) at a great price, and she actually heard my random pleas for a shoe that had treads.  I had discovered football, and with it a desire to look like a football player.  Once I opened the box, the first thing I saw were the lugs on the outsole, then the flashes of blue and white.  Fuck.  Yes.  These were the shoes that I would use to rule the world at anything from kickball to touch football.  But wait, what the hell?  What the shit is that plastered on the side?

It was terrible.  My heart sank.  Dominating the most visible part of the shoe was Hercules, of Disney fame, smiling at me and flexing his bicep.  Taking a shoe out, I turned it over and over to reveal more and more Hercules labeling.  I can’t remember if I cried or not; I don’t think my young mind could understand quite what was happening.  What I had originally thought to be my own pair of Hermes’ fucking winged sandals (yeah, see what I did there?) was just a stupid, kiddy marketing tie-in.  I was outraged.  My mom was not amused with my little hissy fit.  My sister smelled blood in the water and teased me mercilessly.  I dreaded going to school the next day having to wear my stupid clown shoes.  The morning was alright; no one noticed my shame, but I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop (that’s right, that happened.  Strap yourselves in.) and the laughter to begin.  It finally happened at recess, in the giant field where we all played kickback, a simple game where two teams take turns trying to kick a ball or balls in the air towards each other and seeing who can catch them.

As a lowly second grader, my friends and I were looked down on by the third graders, and as the game went on, I managed to catch one of their kicks, and thusly drew their ire.  The kid who kicked it looked mad as he saw me jump in triumph, but as soon as he saw my shoes, he knew he had me.  I started my run up to kick and he shouted, “YOU HAVE HERCULES SHOES ON!  HA!  BACK UP EVERYONE!”  Naturally, I muffed the kick and managed to slip, falling into some conveniently placed mud.  I was on my back, sinking into the wet grass as the laughter started up.  My cheeks were heating up from a mixture of shame and rage.  Understandably, my friends weren’t eager to help me up lest they be associated with the dorky kid with Hercules shoes.  As I looked into the sky and felt the cold dirty water seep into my shirt, I swore to myself that I would never wear these fucking shoes ever again.

To be continued – Next up: Cargo pants, graphic tees, hair gel, and skate shoes