I have come to a decision.
And you should know decisions often do not come easy for me. In fact, I may take anywhere from six months up to five years or more deciding on such life-altering matters as whether to buy a new phone, whether to get a DVR, or whether to attend a concert. In the case of the latter, sometimes the concert will pass before I decide, and I wind up not even having to make a decision at all. So, win-win.
But the decision I want reveal today is one I have been ruminating over for probably about six years now. And that is, whether or not to shave one's chest. More specifically, mine.
Let me begin by stating that while I do have hair on my chest and stomach area, I really have no idea if it is excessive. I mean, no one's ever gotten their fingers stuck. At least, not for more than a couple seconds. It's not Austin Powers-esque or anything. And thankfully, I don't have any hair on my back.
When I grew up, having hair on one's chest was normal, or so I thought. Tom Selleck, Alan Thicke, the Duke boys, my Dad -- these were my chest role models, the people I looked up to. But anymore? I'm not so sure.
More and more, it seems I and my Church Of The Unshorn Bosom brothers are an ever-shrinking minority. Is shaving the norm now? When did this all start? And where does it end? What's next, shaving our legs? Wearing skinny jeans?
I'm sorry, but I have to take a stand. I'm sick of noticing guys on the beach or at the pool and wondering if they shave or are naturally hairless. Don't you see how wrong that is? I'm noticing guys at the pool! I'm tired of Google-imaging "Alan Thicke shirtless." Even with SafeSearch on moderate, it's still just... too much.
It has to stop.
Maybe I'm lazy. Or maybe I've just gotten old. But shaving seems like way too much maintenance to me at this point. And I imagine much itchiness. Perhaps this is just where I finally hop off the fashion train. I think I've done a remarkably fair job of trying to keep up. Over the years, I've put away the tightie-whities for boxers, traded in the tapered-leg jeans, and even welcomed plaid shorts with open arms and willing legs.
But it's time to admit that I'm not from Jersey Beach or Laguna Hills. I'm not The Situation, or Spooki. I'm Bone. And I'm bringing manly back.
I hereby declare that I will not be shaving my chest. I might even start unbuttoning the second button on my shirt, proudly let the man-meadow sway in the breeze a bit.
Of course, should Tom Selleck do a new movie with a topless scene in which he is clearly rocking the bare-breasted look, at that point I may be forced to revisit my decision.
"I'm so obsessed. My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest..."
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Ten fingers none the poorer
As Blogtober passes the halfway mark, I've managed to write every day except one. I didn't get home from the Bama game until after 1:30 this morning and was just too worn out to try and write. Maybe I can write an hour or more tomorrow to make up for it. You know, double up on my prescription. That's always worked really well for me with pain medication.
Parking is always an issue at the Bama games. The place we'd parked the past two years was turned into an RV lot a few weeks ago. So at the last game, we paid ten bucks to park over a mile away from the stadium. Thing is, I have a little issue with paying for parking, more specifically, paying to park over a mile away from the event. I adhere to the George Costanza theory, which is loosely translated (or exactly as he said it word-for-word): "It's like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free?"
So through talking to a few people and Google-mapping the area, we found a new place to park yesterday, for free. And mostly legal.
Last night was also the first cold-weather Bama game. The low temperature was in the upper 30's, which was a problem for me because I couldn't remember how 38 degrees feels. It's been so long since last winter, plus how often am I out in the cold for four or five hours? Two, three times a year, max? Thus, I wasn't sure what to wear.
What we need is a program where you enter the expected temperature and wind speed along with how long you're going to be outside, and it would tell you what to wear.
For example, I'd input 38 degrees at 10 mph for 4 hours, and it would spit out: "ear muffs or a toboggan, gloves, wool socks (preferably Argyle), thermal underwear, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt under either a sweatshirt or a stylish cardigan." (Speaking of, whatever happened to The Cardigans? Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me...)
My device could be called the Outfit Forecaster. Maybe I could somehow combine it with my Outfit Flow Chart of a couple years back. That would seriously cut down on the amount of mental energy I expend each day trying to figure out what to wear. Then I would have more time and energy to spend pondering important issues such as, well, whatever happened to the Cardigans.
In the end, I think the ensemble I chose for the game worked out OK, except that I didn't bring any gloves. Also, the band of my thermal underwear got a little itchy. Sometime during second quarter, one of my fingers started going numb. (This had to do with the gloves, not the underwear.) I looked down and all my other fingers were flesh-colored, but this one was a scary yellowish-white.
I might have had a brief, mostly internal panic attack. I'm too young to have circulation problems! How will I blog?! I showed it to my sister and she said, and I quote, "You're probably gonna get gangrene and your finger will fall off. You should have put plastic bags on your hands. Didn't Dad ever teach you anything?"
Fortunately, I returned home with all my digits. And now I remember quite well how 38 degrees feels. In mid-October, nonetheless.
Welcome to Alabama: The new North Dakota.
"This evening has been, been hoping that you'd drop in, so very nice. I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice..."
Parking is always an issue at the Bama games. The place we'd parked the past two years was turned into an RV lot a few weeks ago. So at the last game, we paid ten bucks to park over a mile away from the stadium. Thing is, I have a little issue with paying for parking, more specifically, paying to park over a mile away from the event. I adhere to the George Costanza theory, which is loosely translated (or exactly as he said it word-for-word): "It's like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free?"
So through talking to a few people and Google-mapping the area, we found a new place to park yesterday, for free. And mostly legal.
Last night was also the first cold-weather Bama game. The low temperature was in the upper 30's, which was a problem for me because I couldn't remember how 38 degrees feels. It's been so long since last winter, plus how often am I out in the cold for four or five hours? Two, three times a year, max? Thus, I wasn't sure what to wear.
What we need is a program where you enter the expected temperature and wind speed along with how long you're going to be outside, and it would tell you what to wear.
For example, I'd input 38 degrees at 10 mph for 4 hours, and it would spit out: "ear muffs or a toboggan, gloves, wool socks (preferably Argyle), thermal underwear, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt under either a sweatshirt or a stylish cardigan." (Speaking of, whatever happened to The Cardigans? Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me...)
My device could be called the Outfit Forecaster. Maybe I could somehow combine it with my Outfit Flow Chart of a couple years back. That would seriously cut down on the amount of mental energy I expend each day trying to figure out what to wear. Then I would have more time and energy to spend pondering important issues such as, well, whatever happened to the Cardigans.
In the end, I think the ensemble I chose for the game worked out OK, except that I didn't bring any gloves. Also, the band of my thermal underwear got a little itchy. Sometime during second quarter, one of my fingers started going numb. (This had to do with the gloves, not the underwear.) I looked down and all my other fingers were flesh-colored, but this one was a scary yellowish-white.
I might have had a brief, mostly internal panic attack. I'm too young to have circulation problems! How will I blog?! I showed it to my sister and she said, and I quote, "You're probably gonna get gangrene and your finger will fall off. You should have put plastic bags on your hands. Didn't Dad ever teach you anything?"
Fortunately, I returned home with all my digits. And now I remember quite well how 38 degrees feels. In mid-October, nonetheless.
Welcome to Alabama: The new North Dakota.
"This evening has been, been hoping that you'd drop in, so very nice. I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice..."
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Riding In Cars With Boys
Hanging out with Little Joe and Wolfgang is kinda like watching Robin Williams on a talk show. I'm never quite sure what to expect, but I know I'll most likely be entertained. And sometimes scared.
The first weekend of Spring felt like the first weekend of Summer. So LJ, Wolfgang, and I took advantage by heading up to Kinlock Falls Sunday afternoon. Despite temperatures which had been in the 80's seemingly for a week, the water was slightly frigid. I found that out the first time I jumped in, leaving me yelping like a little girl. It was like millions of tiny pin pricks on my delicate, milky white skin. Nature's own little accupuncture therapy, if you will.
As we were leaving, I ran into a girl I knew but couldn't remember her name. (That's not selective memory. That's just bad memory.) We chatted for a few minutes. Meanwhile, LJ had been talking to this guy about the location of another swimming hole, deeper in the forest. We decided we'd look for it.
About a quarter of a mile up the road, I heard a beeping noise, then looked over and said, "Uhh, why does that say low fuel?"
LJ replied, "Oh... uh... I forgot about that. Yeah. We're not going to The Blue Hole today."
So there we were, on a gravel road deep inside the national forest, with LJ's instrument panel reading that we had 27 miles of gas remaining. And I'm estimating it is about 25 miles back to the store. LJ didn't think it was that far and said he was confident we had plenty of gas. Wolfgang and I began to berate LJ. I asked him why he didn't get gas before we left town, especially since I had him stop at a store on the way so that I could get a Mountain Dew!
I should probably mention here that LJ has a history of running out of gas. (And being in wrecks. And staying up for forty-eight straight hours and hallucinating. But those are other stories for another time.) For some illogical reason, he seems to enjoy pushing the limits and seeing just how far his car will go.
I was even riding with him once when, after ignoring my continuous pleas to stop, he ran out of gas in a rather unsavory area of town. In that particular instance, he said not to worry, that the car would restart at least twice after it first ran out of gas. Which would indicate he had done that at least once before. Amazingly enough, it did, and we coasted into the next gas station.
Anyway, back to Sunday. We got back to the store with three miles of gas remaining. Just as we were about to pull in, Wolfgang yelled from the back seat, "Keep going! I want to see how far we could have made it!" Ugh.
They dropped me off at my car. As we pulled back onto the highway, I saw the top start to go up on Little Joe's convertible. He started down the highway with the top standing straight up in the air, almost perfectly vertical. I had no idea what they were doing, but he pulled into someone's driveway. I honked and continued past. My phone rang. It was Wolfgang. I answered but couldn't even manage to say hello. For like twenty seconds, there's nothing but laughter on both ends.
We met back up at LJ's later that night. I walked into the kitchen to get something and noticed three pairs of solid white Reeboks sitting heel-to-toe by the garage door. I nearly pulled out my phone to take a picture. (They were kinda like these except without the navy.) Here were these three pairs of shoes from the 1980's, identical except for the amount of wear.
What?
Does he just keep buying the same style over and over? And if so, where does he still find them? Or did he buy them all in 1989? And why three pairs? Maybe they were the last three pairs ever made, so he wanted to stock up on them. Or maybe he rotates them, like tires, so that they last longer.
So many questions. So few answers...
Again, I never know what to expect, and sometimes I'm scared.
"So put me on a highway, and show me a sign, and take it to the limit one more time..."
The first weekend of Spring felt like the first weekend of Summer. So LJ, Wolfgang, and I took advantage by heading up to Kinlock Falls Sunday afternoon. Despite temperatures which had been in the 80's seemingly for a week, the water was slightly frigid. I found that out the first time I jumped in, leaving me yelping like a little girl. It was like millions of tiny pin pricks on my delicate, milky white skin. Nature's own little accupuncture therapy, if you will.
As we were leaving, I ran into a girl I knew but couldn't remember her name. (That's not selective memory. That's just bad memory.) We chatted for a few minutes. Meanwhile, LJ had been talking to this guy about the location of another swimming hole, deeper in the forest. We decided we'd look for it.
About a quarter of a mile up the road, I heard a beeping noise, then looked over and said, "Uhh, why does that say low fuel?"
LJ replied, "Oh... uh... I forgot about that. Yeah. We're not going to The Blue Hole today."
So there we were, on a gravel road deep inside the national forest, with LJ's instrument panel reading that we had 27 miles of gas remaining. And I'm estimating it is about 25 miles back to the store. LJ didn't think it was that far and said he was confident we had plenty of gas. Wolfgang and I began to berate LJ. I asked him why he didn't get gas before we left town, especially since I had him stop at a store on the way so that I could get a Mountain Dew!
I should probably mention here that LJ has a history of running out of gas. (And being in wrecks. And staying up for forty-eight straight hours and hallucinating. But those are other stories for another time.) For some illogical reason, he seems to enjoy pushing the limits and seeing just how far his car will go.
I was even riding with him once when, after ignoring my continuous pleas to stop, he ran out of gas in a rather unsavory area of town. In that particular instance, he said not to worry, that the car would restart at least twice after it first ran out of gas. Which would indicate he had done that at least once before. Amazingly enough, it did, and we coasted into the next gas station.
Anyway, back to Sunday. We got back to the store with three miles of gas remaining. Just as we were about to pull in, Wolfgang yelled from the back seat, "Keep going! I want to see how far we could have made it!" Ugh.
They dropped me off at my car. As we pulled back onto the highway, I saw the top start to go up on Little Joe's convertible. He started down the highway with the top standing straight up in the air, almost perfectly vertical. I had no idea what they were doing, but he pulled into someone's driveway. I honked and continued past. My phone rang. It was Wolfgang. I answered but couldn't even manage to say hello. For like twenty seconds, there's nothing but laughter on both ends.
We met back up at LJ's later that night. I walked into the kitchen to get something and noticed three pairs of solid white Reeboks sitting heel-to-toe by the garage door. I nearly pulled out my phone to take a picture. (They were kinda like these except without the navy.) Here were these three pairs of shoes from the 1980's, identical except for the amount of wear.
What?
Does he just keep buying the same style over and over? And if so, where does he still find them? Or did he buy them all in 1989? And why three pairs? Maybe they were the last three pairs ever made, so he wanted to stock up on them. Or maybe he rotates them, like tires, so that they last longer.
So many questions. So few answers...
Again, I never know what to expect, and sometimes I'm scared.
"So put me on a highway, and show me a sign, and take it to the limit one more time..."
Friday, March 09, 2007
The fashion evolution of Bone
A few months ago, I found myself in Cracker Barrell, standing in line behind a guy who was wearing a flannel shirt, tucked in to his slim fit tapered leg faded jeans, the bottom of which conveniently fell about two inches above his white Nikes. Yes, I was tempted to bend down and tight roll them.
Normally I don't pay attention to what other guys wear. But for some reason, this caught my attention. And I began to ponder. I think some people just get tired of trying to keep up with the latest styles and fashions. They find a look they like, and they stick with it from here on out. Look at Cracker Barrell Guy, for instance. I'd say he deboarded the fashion bus sometime around 1985.
That's fine if that's who you want to be. No judgment here. After all, I watched Cheers, I liked Sam Malone. My question is, where do people who wear these out of style clothes keep finding them? Because they can't all be wearing clothes that are twenty years old. Somewhere, some store has to still be selling them. Which means some company has to still be manufacturing them. That's what confounds me about all of this.
Don't get the wrong idea. I make no claim to be on the leading edge of fashion myself. I'm closer to the trailing edge, actually. But I do try to keep up. I even got a compliment the other day from a female friend of a friend, who told my friend, "He knows how to dress."
Still, I say all this very humbly, as someone whose personal fashion evolution includes the Wrangler and cowboy boot phase of the early nineties. But I survived that and am able to laugh about it now. And by laugh, I mean shudder.
It was during my heavy country music listening days. Which is the main reason I totally missed out on the whole Nirvana/Pearl Jam/Metallica explosion. But that's another story for another post. I was all the time going to country concerts. Alabama, Garth, Reba, George Strait, Clint Black, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, Brooks & Dunn, I saw them all.
I even had a black felt cowboy hat that I wore to a concert or two. Yes, I was that guy. Except I didn't know I was supposed to have the hat shaped. So I wound up looking more like Howdy Doody than Garth Brooks.
I wore boots. And Wranglers. Tight, slim fit Wranglers. As in, if I had a toothpick in my pocket, you'd be able to spot the outline of it from fifty feet away. And tell if it was single-ended or double-ended. I also wore briefs.
I'm not ashamed of my fashion past. But now, thankfully, I'm a different man. With a different body. And different jeans. And boxers. I still occasionally listen to country music. But I could never go back to Wranglers. Or briefs.
Once you get used to that free-wheeling, unfettered lifestyle, I don't think it's possible to go back. It'd be like driving a Tahoe for ten years, then trying to fit back into an Escort. Certain parts of my body hurt now just thinking about it.
Most everything I've learned about fashion has come from girls I was dating at the time, female friends, or occasionally my sister. After all, why do guys comb their hair, shave, or wear nice clothes? It's not to impress the other guys, I can assure you.
Several weeks ago, I purchased a corduroy blazer with vintage suede elbow pads. Much like the pink shirt, it is the type of purchase that could only have been made with female accompaniment and approval.
Danger arises, however, when I go thru a dating drought. Female friends can help a little. But the fact is, no one is going to be as vigilant as the girl who has to be seen in public with you and known as your girlfriend. One might theorize some guys who are "out of style" are simply still wearing the clothes they wore the last time they had a girlfriend.
I'm pretty good at putting outfits together. But sometimes, I'm not 100% sure what jacket to wear with a particular shirt, for example. Some mornings I literally spend a minute or two agonizing over my outfit for the day. Here's where I think an outfit flowchart for guys would come in handy. (Not to be confused with a Jump To Conclusions Mat.) Yes friends, my name is Bone, and I'm bringing flowcharts back.
Every guy could have a girl in his life go thru his clothes and design one for him. We could just plug in a particular shirt or sweater into the oval box, then follow a series of lines, diamonds, and parallelograms leading us to acceptable jacket and pant combinations.
Another question I sometimes struggle with is: When is it appropriate to tuck in shirts for guys?
Personally, with jeans, I never tuck. Polo shirts, t-shirts, button-up shirts, I leave them untucked. Even with a sport jacket. Normally with dress pants, I tuck. But what about with khakis? And is it ever appropriate to tuck with jeans?
These are the questions I have. These are the clothes that I wear.
And don't discount the outfit flowchart.
"What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing? Can't you tell that your tie's too wide? Maybe I should buy some old tab collars. Welcome back to the age of jive..."
Normally I don't pay attention to what other guys wear. But for some reason, this caught my attention. And I began to ponder. I think some people just get tired of trying to keep up with the latest styles and fashions. They find a look they like, and they stick with it from here on out. Look at Cracker Barrell Guy, for instance. I'd say he deboarded the fashion bus sometime around 1985.
That's fine if that's who you want to be. No judgment here. After all, I watched Cheers, I liked Sam Malone. My question is, where do people who wear these out of style clothes keep finding them? Because they can't all be wearing clothes that are twenty years old. Somewhere, some store has to still be selling them. Which means some company has to still be manufacturing them. That's what confounds me about all of this.
Don't get the wrong idea. I make no claim to be on the leading edge of fashion myself. I'm closer to the trailing edge, actually. But I do try to keep up. I even got a compliment the other day from a female friend of a friend, who told my friend, "He knows how to dress."
Still, I say all this very humbly, as someone whose personal fashion evolution includes the Wrangler and cowboy boot phase of the early nineties. But I survived that and am able to laugh about it now. And by laugh, I mean shudder.
It was during my heavy country music listening days. Which is the main reason I totally missed out on the whole Nirvana/Pearl Jam/Metallica explosion. But that's another story for another post. I was all the time going to country concerts. Alabama, Garth, Reba, George Strait, Clint Black, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, Brooks & Dunn, I saw them all.
I even had a black felt cowboy hat that I wore to a concert or two. Yes, I was that guy. Except I didn't know I was supposed to have the hat shaped. So I wound up looking more like Howdy Doody than Garth Brooks.
I wore boots. And Wranglers. Tight, slim fit Wranglers. As in, if I had a toothpick in my pocket, you'd be able to spot the outline of it from fifty feet away. And tell if it was single-ended or double-ended. I also wore briefs.
I'm not ashamed of my fashion past. But now, thankfully, I'm a different man. With a different body. And different jeans. And boxers. I still occasionally listen to country music. But I could never go back to Wranglers. Or briefs.
Once you get used to that free-wheeling, unfettered lifestyle, I don't think it's possible to go back. It'd be like driving a Tahoe for ten years, then trying to fit back into an Escort. Certain parts of my body hurt now just thinking about it.
Most everything I've learned about fashion has come from girls I was dating at the time, female friends, or occasionally my sister. After all, why do guys comb their hair, shave, or wear nice clothes? It's not to impress the other guys, I can assure you.
Several weeks ago, I purchased a corduroy blazer with vintage suede elbow pads. Much like the pink shirt, it is the type of purchase that could only have been made with female accompaniment and approval.
Danger arises, however, when I go thru a dating drought. Female friends can help a little. But the fact is, no one is going to be as vigilant as the girl who has to be seen in public with you and known as your girlfriend. One might theorize some guys who are "out of style" are simply still wearing the clothes they wore the last time they had a girlfriend.
I'm pretty good at putting outfits together. But sometimes, I'm not 100% sure what jacket to wear with a particular shirt, for example. Some mornings I literally spend a minute or two agonizing over my outfit for the day. Here's where I think an outfit flowchart for guys would come in handy. (Not to be confused with a Jump To Conclusions Mat.) Yes friends, my name is Bone, and I'm bringing flowcharts back.
Every guy could have a girl in his life go thru his clothes and design one for him. We could just plug in a particular shirt or sweater into the oval box, then follow a series of lines, diamonds, and parallelograms leading us to acceptable jacket and pant combinations.
Another question I sometimes struggle with is: When is it appropriate to tuck in shirts for guys?
Personally, with jeans, I never tuck. Polo shirts, t-shirts, button-up shirts, I leave them untucked. Even with a sport jacket. Normally with dress pants, I tuck. But what about with khakis? And is it ever appropriate to tuck with jeans?
These are the questions I have. These are the clothes that I wear.
And don't discount the outfit flowchart.
"What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing? Can't you tell that your tie's too wide? Maybe I should buy some old tab collars. Welcome back to the age of jive..."
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