J-Lo's Loss is Every Man's Gain

I hadn't thought of him in years.

Sure, I had the single for "I Need to Know."  (Tell me, baby girl, who didn't?)  I knew he had been married to Jennifer Lopez and vaguely recalled hearing about their separation and impending divorce.  But until this moment, standing next to the corner display table in the men's section of Kohl's department store, I realized I'd never really known the man at all.

The man I'm speaking of is Marc Anthony.  And this is the story of how he changed my life.  Or at least my early forties.

It all began a couple of years ago, sitting on a couch in Anytown, USA, watching the ABC sitcom "The Middle."  That's when I noticed that I owned (and frequently wore) the exact same shirt as one of the actors.  On the show, he played a 17-year-old named Axl.  In real life, I was evidently playing a 40-year-old "teen" named Bone.

From that point on, everywhere I'd go I began to notice my style was being imitated by guys half my age.  How could this be?  Did I somehow have a cult following of which I wasn't aware?

Perhaps.  I mean, what kid wouldn't look up to a guy who blogs, doesn't really "go out with people," and is a boss at Trivia Crack and Words With Friends?

Or maybe it was me.  Was I dressing like a teenager/college kid?  I did gets lots of clothes from Aeropostale every year for Christmas.  (What?  It's not like a have a pair of shorts with "Juicy" printed on the ass.)

But what else was there?  It was either dress like a teenager or give in and start wearing those old man shirts that should say "instantly turn into your dad for only $19.97."  (And now you have a window into Madonna's thought process prior to every major television appearance.)

No, I couldn't go there.  I wouldn't.  Not yet.  And so, I draped myself in cotton -- continuing to sport a variety of raglan t-shirts, zip-up hoodies, and my Chucks -- and slogged on.

At different times in my life, I had patterned my "style" after the debonair likes of Brandon Walsh, Jason Morgan, and Dillon Quartermaine.  (We'll conveniently gloss over the Wranglers and western boots days.)  Of course, Jason left General Hospital for Genoa City, new Jason mostly wears prison garb, who knows what zip code Brandon landed in, and Dillon is off in California making movies.  If only I could summon him for advice.  What would Dillon do?

Maybe that was the problem: All my TV heroes of suave attire were gone.  Now there is only Matthew McConaughey driving around talking to his car or Jeff Bridges trying to sing me to sleep.

Whatever the reason(s), my sometimes-bumpy fashion evolution had come to a complete standstill. There needed to be a middle ground, something to fill the fashion vacuum for guys of a certain age who are still attempting to be marginally stylish.  I mean, there must be dozens of us out there, right?

Enter Mr. Anthony.

Who knew we had so much in common!  He was born in New York, I've visited New York.  He was raised Roman Catholic, I've shot Roman candles.  He was married to J-Lo, I've.... shot Roman candles.

Standing in Kohl's that day, I realized that after years of wandering in a fashion desert, I had found my promised land.  A retail Canaan stretched out before me as far as housewares to the north and jewelry and accessories to the west.

It was a land flowing with a generous assortment of sweaters, polos, and button-down shirts predominately in blacks, no-nonsense greys, and pleasing blues.  There were even a few hoodies.  But more mature ones, which could be dressed up or dressed down.  And really, isn't that what everyone is looking for in life?

No longer am I a 40-year-old dressing like a 17-year-old.  Today, I stand before you a 42-year-old who dresses more like a... guy in his early thirties.

Forever comfortable in my own skin.  At long last, I'm comfortable wearing another man's clothes.

"Not a lot to lean on / I need Your light to help me / Find my place in this world..."

Threadbare and sentimental

Good. Bye.

Perhaps no two words in the English language conjure up more emotion than those. But really, isn't it just one word? Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?

Goodbye.

'Tis the sweet memories of time shared darkened by the sudden knowledge of what will never be again. What was it Bone wrote? "For had I known that someday goodbye we would say, I rather would have chosen never to have lived that day."

Goodbye is never easy to say, and even harder to do. Especially when the thing you are saying goodbye to is... a favorite sweater.

I think the time has come to part with my DQ sweater. No, not GQ. DQ. As in, Dillon Quartermaine. I wore it Monday and, well, let's just say it has seen its better days. The once royal and pristine gray is showing the slightest signs of fading. It has started to pill. And also has begun to lose its shape. A couple more wears and frankly, I'll look like I'm draped in a Snuggie. And no one wants to see that.

Why is the sweater such a tragic figure? It's the Holly Golightly of the wardrobe. Like the really hot, high maintenance girl you date. You know it's going to require a lot of work and extra attention and in the end it's not going to last. But you do it anyway. Just because she's so pretty and soft to touch.

Of course, eventually she becomes threadbare and you begin to see her flaws. Her arms start to sag and she loses her shape. And you realize she is no different than every other soft and pretty thing you've ever touched. Wait, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.

We are here today to pay our final respects to the DQ sweater. It has served me well. It wasn't the best sweater nor the worst sweater, not my last sweater nor my first sweater. But it is the only sweater I have ever written an entire blog entry about.

I will always remember its mockneck collar with three-button placket, and how well it went with a pair of jeans and my black leather jacket. I remember when one of its buttons came off, and how I found some girl to sew it back on. And then how it came off again, and...is there anything in the world less reliable than the buttons on clothes?

And so with that, let us lay to rest the DQ sweater. But do not mourn for me. Rather beware. For while today it is mine, all our sweaters shall one day fall.

"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel..."