Fashionista

 I was aware of my fashion sense when I was quite young. Old enough to notice when my younger brother and I were dressed alike. I was quick to speak out to my mother about this "twinsies" thing. I was, after all, my own man. I said this with the full ironic knowledge that my mother still bought all my clothes. The correct response would have been to thank my mother for putting clothes on my back. Color-coordinated clothes that were new and clean and purchased on a budget that was stretched to clothe three growing boys. 

It did not occur to me then to appreciate all of those factors. Much in the same way I was pained when, after pleading with my mother for a Fonzie T-shirt for my birthday, I got one. But it was not the style that I had seen all the other kids wearing. This one was a drawing of The Fonz, with "Aaaaay!" scrawled beneath it. It was not the photo version with the Happy Days logo that made it official. But I wore it, much to the dismay of the cool kids who knew better. The same cool kids who insisted that Adidas Superstars were the shoe of the moment. The same kids who sneered at my JC Penny knockoffs with four stripes instead of three. The same kids who knew just exactly how wide the flares on your jeans should be. The same kids who turned up their noses at my bell bottoms. And for the most part, I held this shame inside, knowing that my mother was doing the best she could. I was also very clear on the understanding that going along with every fad that came down the pike was a fool's errand. Keeping up with the appearances of the Joneses would lead to nothing but heartache. I convinced my mom to buy me a rayon disco shirt to wear to the big end of year ninth grade dance. I wore this under the black shell of my older brother's leather jacket. It was, as they say, "a look." I didn't have any real idea about how to put together an ensemble. 

Which didn't keep me, once I started buying my own clothes, from picking up a white linen blazer. It was my hope to hang on to that last bit of Don Johnson-Miami Vice style that briefly permeated the middle of the 1980s. It was casual, which suited me. It was an article of clothing that placed me within the zeitgeist. It was a jacket with sleeves that were meant to be rolled up. How could it miss?

How about the fact that I have never been capable of being anything but completely conscious of what I was wearing. How about knowing inside that I was not Sonny Crockett, nor was I Don Johnson. I was wearing a costume, at best. I was cosplaying a show I never really watched. 

But I did want to fit in so very much.

Until I simply surrendered to what has become my official uniform: Concert T-shirt and jeans. It was only recently that I was awakened to the concept of "skinny jeans," which left me nothing but cold. And searching for something in which I could feel comfortable. And that's my style.