At a very young age girls develop the insatiable desire to dress up their men. We are their proverbial Ken doll. Ken, in the Barbie lineup, was never meant to be an object of desire for Barbie. No, he is the opportunity to experiment with outfits that don't work on women. Since I am a married man I allow my wife to fulfill her desire on me by buying me clothes.
Reflecting on my life I don't recall any time I ever bought clothes for myself. When I was young my mother clothed me in the recently outgrown clothes of my nearest cousin. When I became a teenager my mother took me shopping for "outfits" and I began to don my older brother's flannels. After I met Chrissy she took over and the circle was complete.
Being a nerd I always took a certain pride in the fact that I did not choose the clothes I wear. I felt my nerdiness completed in that I couldn't care less about the articles I use to keep my body warm and my modesty socially acceptable. I was a bastion, a fortress if you will of apparel apathy. Little did I know I was living in a world of self-deception.
Chrissy did not bring home clothes often, but when she did it was generally in line with my current wardrobe: plain, yet functional. Sure, she did not bring home as much plaid as I might have liked, but what did I care? Then, out of nowhere, like some unknown terror embodying all your unspoken fears came... the girl pants.
The girl pants are a pair of jeans that are pre-faded. They are blue and darker on my outer and inner thigh than in the front or back. They are made of a stretchier material than my other jeans which is necessary because they are too tight on me. Chrissy says they are not too tight, they just fit. I call them girl pants because I had never seen pants that faded or fit in this way on anyone of the male persuasion before becoming an owner. I only notice them on other guys now because I am trying to calm my embarrassment.
It was actually the embarrassment that got me thinking. I thought I didn't care what I wore and now here I am ashamed to go outside because of clothes. As I began to ponder this inner conflict I found the source of my discomfort. It was not that the pants were too tight, nor that they appeared feminine to any outsider, nor that they looked bad. No, it was much much worse. They were in style. Could it be? Had my desire for nerd perfection got the best of me. Had I actually become, anti-cool? Don't misunderstand, I am quite aware that no pair of pants can make me any less than what I am and no one in their right mind would mistake me for cool. What irritated me was that I had allowed the "cool factor" to rule me. All that time spent scoffing at the cool and their pretty shirts and stylish hair and girly pants, thinking to myself "they are ruled by 'the man'", it was all a ruse to protect myself from the truth; I had defined a part of my being, my non-style, by the same standards as everyone else. The only difference was that I had striven to be non-cool. Even if my life was a complete rejection of all that the hip and trendy stand for, they still define me. I am not my own person I am just the opposite of them, in clothes if nothing else. I could not stand for this conclusion so I did the only thing I could do. I took my rightful place as the Ken in my woman's life and wore the pants.