What the Hell are you wearing?

I came across one of those dreadful articles the other day “What Men should wear Over 40”. It sent me into a spiral of panic. I’m basically still wearing what Iv’e worn since I was in my late twenties ; Standard uniform of Stussy T and Jeans, with airmax 95’s. Only now I’m faced with the horrible truth, I’m getting a bit mutton.

Apparently I should be wearing a nice Oxford shirt, Chino’s and some Boating shoes. I should be distinguished, own a Blazer and a nice pair of Brogues – And wait for it – Skinny Jeans. Skinny Fucking Jeans, (was there ever a more emasculating item of clothing woven into existence.)

Even if I wanted to have a wardrobe overhaul I couldn’t fit into anything from the GQ Nazi HQ list of must have items.  I used to be a Large, (I’m a 36 waist, oh alright 38) and I’m a 46 chest. I’m hefty, stocky, I spent ten years in the gym and it’s all heading south. So to my absolute horror I am now deemed an XXXL. That’s right triple fucking XL.

Apparently a friend of mine who works in the Rag trade put’s it down to the rise of the female designer – designing for Men. Women, he says, tend to design for what they desire, whilst men will design for what they need. No, that didn’t make any sense to me either but it came from the lips of a fashion professional so I just nodded and sighed in agreement.

Sexist nonsense aside, I have noticed over the last ten years that boys are being dressed more like girls. What’s wrong with that I hear you cry? Are you Gender conformist you moany old git? (Well no, trust me, quite the opposite. But that’s another story for another time) No, there’s just one problem, Men have different shaped bodies to Women. Whilst a woman may look adorable in slim fitting clothing, you can’t squeeze a 17 stone geezer into some jeggings. And don’t get me started on low cut t-shirts and Snoods.

You see, I am big, it’s the clothes that got smaller.

Well fuck it. I’m going to defiantly carry on wearing my trusted uniform of jeans and t-shirt.  I don’t give a shit if I look like an old git trying to be cool. I am fucking cool, big fat fucking cool and if it just so happens that what I was wearing twenty years ago is suddenly down with the kids, I shall milk it for all it’s worth. Because there’s one big difference difference between me and a sixteen year old… I can fucking afford it.

 

 

 

Take the first Exit on the Left.

In a few months time I will be 46 and quite frankly I’m losing the plot.

I’m happy-ish married and I run my own business.  From outward appearances we’re a solid, fun couple, the type that gets invited to parties to liven things up. We’re also the token gays or as we’ve come to be known “The boys”. We’re not boys anymore, far from it  (although we are bestowed with the eternal adolescence that comes with being gay).

So far so good. Married, tick that box, travelled a bit, tick that box, own our own home, tick that box too. Iv’e been working my arse off to tick boxes for the last twenty six years.

But I don’t want to tick boxes anymore. I think I want out. Not ‘out’ out, just a total mid life overhaul.

As I assess my life and take stock of all the crap I have accumulated over the years it’s painfully obvious that I’ve often been driven by what other what other people think of me. But as I reach this halfway point in life I couldn’t give a flying fuck anymore, (pardon my French).

I was brought up in the eighties in an era of “Must have”.  Must have a good job, must have a great body, must have a nice partner, must have a lovely home, must have at least two holidays a year and must have security.  It’s only now, at this mid life crisis, that I am daring to ask the question – Why?

Why the fuck do I need any of it? (I’m all out of pardon’s).

The trouble is every time I contemplate sodding off into the sunset with a rucksack and a change of underwear I get the guilts and not just my own guilt, a long line of guilt. I’m one hundred percent working class . Iv’e delved into my ancestry.com and it’s pure poverty as far as the eye can see.

So not only would I be letting everyone I know down if I decide to quit my current life, I would also be letting down my impoverished family tree.  Contemporary guilt is hard to handle, ancestral guilt is totally overwhelming.

Then there’s my husband, the plan is not to leave him, just send for him once Iv’e established a self sufficient utopian commune somewhere in the Lake District.

There’s a lot to consider before buggering off.

But despite all this I’ve decided that I’m pressing the ‘fuck it’ button. I’m slamming my hand down so hard that there will be no more fucks to give. They will pour forth and destroy my entire life in an act of glorious self sabotage.

So here I go…

I’ll go live in the woods, I’ll go off grid, I’ll buy one of those micro houses on a trailer and attach it to a rusty bike. I’ll forgo money, material possessions, mortgages, mobile phones and all the other insidious succubus beginning with M.

I’ll forage for truffles. I will run naked through valleys of poppies and frighten livestock. I’ll grow a long wild beard and fish from a stream with a rusty coat hanger. I’ll catch rainwater in old tin cans and fashion loin cloths from old Guardian supplements. I will be wild – I will be free.

And just as I’m at the top of that misty mountain, hand’s on hips, bits flapping in the wind, I will remember who I am.

I will remember how much I am loved and love my life. How fucking grateful I am for everyone and everything in it. Every first world problem, every pain in the fucking arse person, every brown envelope that slithers through my letterbox like an asp.

So I run. I run back to my life, my amazing husband who drives me fucking insane, my nutcase family who’m I adore, my 60 hour a week career, my iPad, my MacBook, my phone and my modern, rubbish life. I burst through the front door screaming “I’M BACK, IT’S ALL ALRIGHT WORLD, LOOK WHO’S BACK!”.

And my world just shrugs back, like it never even knew I was gone, mutters “dickhead” and turns back to the T.V…..