Fashion

“What the f*ck is going on?” I asked myself two Thursday afternoons ago while at my volunteer job in a medical office building near my home. (I man the information desk there for four hours each week, answering questions and helping people in a variety of other ways.)

The day was humming along. I was busy. But something I’d never seen before in the dozen years I’ve held the gig was becoming more and more apparent as the afternoon progressed. Namely, scads of male visitors, ranging from teenagers to senior citizens, were wearing shorts. Amazingly, in fact, it seemed that more geezers — my peers — were in shorts than the younger members of my gender.

The volume of shorts-clad guys in the building didn’t decrease at any point during my shift. I even saw two examples of those gentlemen, each a strong candidate for the Hairiest Legs In Town trophy, heading for an exit together. What the f*ck, indeed! Was it National Men-In-Shorts Day? Sure, the weather outside was mild. But on nice days about one in ten guys visiting the building normally sport shorts. On the Thursday in question the percentage was at least three times higher. Some pieces of photographic evidence of what I observed are included in this essay.

Now, there’s little doubt that just about nobody but me would have paid much, if any, attention to the shorts situation that day. I mean, who gives a shit about guys in shorts, right? Well, I do, but only when it comes to males middle-aged and above. That’s because I, once very pro-shorts, eliminated shorts from my wardrobe circa 1990. In my mid-40s at the time, I was of the opinion that shorts had become age-inappropriate for me.

Furthermore, I decided that guys in my age demographic or older would do well to follow suit. Needless to say, that didn’t happen and still hasn’t. I’ll never be an influencer.

It doesn’t take a psychiatrist or psychotherapist to understand that what I did and thought regarding shorts revealed and continues to reveal plenty about my insecurities and confidence level. Let’s face it, I feel slightly threatened by and jealous of mature men who appear in public in shorts. Clearly, though, I should admire them instead, as many of them, undoubtedly, are more comfortable in their skins than I am in mine.

So, I’ve got work to do. Mainly, I’ll try to stop asking myself “what the f*ck?” when shorts-wearing guys who are far removed from their 20s enter my field of vision. And it wouldn’t hurt if I bought and began wearing shorts again. Screw age–inappropriate!

Up until six months ago I wouldn’t have needed to buy any shorts, though, as two pairs of same had been residing undisturbed within my clothes closet for eons. One was a multi-colored gem, a work of pop art. Back in the 1980s I wore it proudly.

The second pair, taupe in color, lacked charisma but was cool nonetheless. For reasons I can’t recall, not only did I never wear it, I didn’t even remove the price tag. I suppose I bought this pair in the 1990s, thinking I might one day get back into a shorts frame of mind.

Anyway, six months ago a wonderful event took place: a multi-day, my-side-of-the-family reunion. People came from very near and from very far, everyone, including me and my wife Sandy, spending the majority of time in Philadelphia. For one day, though, the gang assembled at Sandy’s and my house in the Philadelphia burbs, where lots of fun was had by all.

I don’t remember why, but in the middle of that day the subject of clothes, maybe of shorts specifically, came up between me and one of my nephews, who was at the reunion with his girlfriend. Bingo! It instantly dawned on me that I possessed clothes I no longer wore and no longer wanted. I raced upstairs and removed both pairs of shorts from their burial site and bestowed them upon two folks much younger and better looking than I. My nephew and his girlfriend wasted no time in putting them on. The photo I snapped of them in their new duds is a favorite of mine. Have shorts ever looked finer on anyone? I think not!

“You need to buy some new jeans,” my wife Sandy had mentioned to me, a reluctant shopper, a few times recently. She wasn’t wrong. Day after day after day I wear jeans, having abandoned other forms of pants when I bid adieu to my decades-long white collar cum chinos career seven years ago. Most of my current crop of jeans is three or more years old. And looks it. Deeply creased and worn areas in the fabrics abound. As do leg bottoms whose threads are unraveling faster than light beams travel. I pondered the situation and eventually submitted. “Want to go to the mall with me?” I asked Sandy not long ago. “I’ll try on jeans. You can tell me how they look.” It was one of those days that, like death, is inevitable.

A big, bright indoor shopping mall, anchored by several department stores (including Macy’s), dwells on once-forested land half a mile from our house. Sandy and I figured that, at the mall, Macy’s would offer the best selection of denim. To Macy’s we went. Sadly, the shopping excursion was not ring-a ding-ding. In the men’s department dressing room I tried on 21 pair of jeans. Some of them squashed my balls demonically. Others, with a modest tug, slid over my waist as if they were greased. What’s a guy got to do to find a pair of jeans that fits right? Hire Levi Strauss’ ghost to custom tailor them? I stormed out of the dressing room, contemplating throwing myself over one of the mall’s inner railings to the ground level courtyard. Good thing Sandy was there to prevent that from happening. Otherwise the masterpiece that you at this moment are reading wouldn’t be floating around in cyberspace.

But all was not lost, for on the way to Macy’s Sandy and I had passed through another department store. Bloomingdale’s. And I, constantly idea-starved when it comes to blog stories, was amazed by how incredibly good the stuff for sale in Bloomingdale’s looked, not to mention the snazzy displays right and left on which the goods balanced and the aura of pizzazz that pervaded the store. “Man, this place is beautiful. It’s like a modern art museum,” I said to myself. And thus a story idea emerged. Let us proceed.

A few days after the day in which I came up jeans-less I was back in Bloomingdale’s. I entered through the portal that led directly to an artistic wonderland, the cosmetics department. Talk about kaleidoscopic vistas, layouts that Andy Warhol would have been proud to design and colors that rocked. I had never paid much attention to cosmetics departments before, but that day I was smitten. Almost sorry that I wasn’t female, I was tempted to sit down on one of the stools ringing some counters and let one of the beauty experts behind the counters have a go at me. Hell, my face could use a lot of help.

Next time I will. But I needed to move on, to check out the museum-worthiness of the rest of Bloomingdale’s first level and the two above that. Not far from cosmetics were women’s dresses. By the way, I saw dresses in other parts of the store too, later, and had no idea what the differences were between the various dress sections. Needless to say, I’m a fashion idiot. Anyway, four of the mannequins-in-dresses on the first floor were hot chicks clad in cinnamon, grey, and black. I could imagine those sculpted figures displayed within a gallery of The Big Apple’s Museum Of Modern Art, where they would be meant to represent, let’s say, a commentary on our society’s beautiful people. Lined up nonchalantly one behind the other, they wowed me. And, permit me to add, they were way beyond my league: now, then and always. Wait, I forgot . . . those girls weren’t real. And I also forgot that I’m married. If it weren’t for those two circumstances though, I might have had the courage to ask the pensive blonde to join me for some pizza slices and frozen yogurt at the mall’s food court. But probably not.

And so I wandered for 40 more minutes. After which I decided that my original impression was correct. And I expanded upon it: Bloomingdale’s is like a modern art museum that has outstanding holdings in color field art and pop art. And I’ll throw in some Matisse too. It’s a haven for color arrangements that sometimes smile and sometimes exuberantly clash. And for sculptures (mannequins) that might get you thinking about what they are thinking.

As usual I’ve entered territories that my analytical and intellectual abilities aren’t equipped to explore much further. And I’m also getting hungry. It’s 12:39 PM as I now prepare to remove my fingers from my computer’s keyboard. Almost time to feed the face that needs a lot of help. I’ll leave you with some additional photographic examples of how artsy-cool Bloomingdale’s is. And I’ll remind you not to be shy about adding your comments or about sharing this article with others. And that if you click on any photo in this story, a larger image will open in a new window.

Peace out.