If you are having a hard time staying a la mode, critter's column is a must read. When he's not attracting porn crafters, sugar daddies and the rest of us, he's setting the trends that keep avivalasvegas readers ahead of the masses. Up to date, sometimes hilarious and always refreshing, his take on life and pop culture is bang on. Join him this month as he tackles monogamy.
nonconformistcritter
The stink of 30: aka the Quest for the Perfect Saturday night shirt
I had a sobering moment last Saturday. As you readers may remember, I am once again single and out there. Well, the evening was planned; I was to have dinner with a friend and then we were off to the local homo hop.
I spent the day running mindless errands which are basically tactical measures to refresh sustenance supplies and feel like I am doing my part to stick it to anti-consumerists of which I used to align myself, to stick it to consumerism.
Anyoldwho, it hit me quite suddenly that I needed a Saturday
night shirt. Now, everyone knows the parameters here: tight
and or slinky (ok, so that's only if you're a woman or a stripper),
new, disposable and of course flattering.
I decided to slip into a department store for a quick fix
- think Wal-Mart not Barney's. I really only wanted a T-shirt
that would flatten the paunch and accentuate the muscles.
You know, low expectations.
I headed straight for the boys department of course. In
a few minutes I had picked 2 appropriate candidates - I'm
still talking shirts here folks. In typical department store
fashion I had to search for a salesperson to let me into the
change room. When I found her she was in shoes helping some
mustached woman into a pair of orthopedics.
She smiled and I think was relived to have been distracted from bearded Betty. I knew her number: 28, living at home, good catholic girl. For a moment I think she imagined me pulled up tight to her 100% poly smock while bearded Betty served us drinks on the plastic lounge set in aisle 5.
So, the moment of reason. The yea or nay. I had selected 2 equally tight numbers, one black and the other fluorescent orange. The black one was a good fit and was only slightly similar to 13 other black T-shirts I have, so it was a possibility.
Now for the ridiculously orange one. Even while wriggling into it I am still thinking, man, you got it going on. What was on the other side of that citric pupa was new territory.
Once I had it on and looked into the mirror, I began to
realize that something was a bit askew. Sure the colour screamed
Elton John but it was fun, right? No, the issue here wasn't
that I looked that bad but that I looked, well, 30. I didn't
look like a young guy wearing a tight spandex shirt, I looked
like a 30 year old trying to look cool in a tight, orange,
spandex condom. Not quite a caricature but none the less a
not uncommon fashion atrocity.
This was the first time since entering the club that I had felt like there just a few little adjustments to be made. Err on the side of butch not Blanche and leave the fluorescent orange to the roughly 10% of the population that can pull it off.
I'm non-conformist but not a fool. Now, don't cry for me
Baltimore. I had a great night and bagged a 20 year old who
thought I was 25. Of course this is insignificant because
age is all relative right? Well, except when you're 30 year
old winter-white gay man trying to dress like a 17 year old
Latina girl.
Contact nonconformistcritter at 5a7@avivalasvegas.com. Make sure to put nonconformistcritter in the subject line.
|
