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Moved Again

June 12, 2010

I’m over here now.


Something About New Clothes

March 24, 2010

With spring weather coming, eventually, my wardrobe needed some change. Really my taste in clothes from one season to the next is a matter of sleeve-length only. As daring and adventurous as I can be with food, I’m stale and predictable when it comes to fashion, though for men, you seem to only have three options when it comes to clothes: Stuff for Kids, Stuff for Douche bags (seriously, who wears two polo shirts at the same time?), and Stuff Your Father Wears. There doesn’t seem to be many options for the 30-year-old male who just wants to look nice and not feel bored by his clothing options. Maybe I feel this way because my clothes come from department stores/mall clothes.

For a while, all my clothes came from Old Navy because they made pants in fat-guy sizes that didn’t scrimp on “style” meaning they weren’t just that flat blue color Levi’s reserves for such large-sized jeans. Now, I’m relatively normal-sized, so I have options. I’m wearing 36 X 34 jeans and, somehow, wearing large shirts, which is something I think about way too much. Right now, I’m wearing a pair of 36-waisted jeans and it’s awesome. I have on an extra-large shirt right now, and it’s billowy on me, which is awesome. These are the feelings that inspire song. I should be singing with a whole troupe of dancers, trapeze artists and trained dolphins behind me hammering out a spectacle devoted to the awesomeness of my smaller clothes sizes. So, I guess it makes sense, emotionally, that I’ve been to Kohl’s three times in about a week, buying three pairs of Levi’s (off the motherfucking shelf, yo!) and about a half-dozen or so shirts.

I’m not sure why I’ve settled on Kohl’s to bestow my clothing spree. You’d think I’d spend more money and time at such fat-shunning places as the Gap or Banana Republic (which are nothing like Old Navy at all…nope, not one bit) or have a friend go into American Eagle to get me a shirt or something. Make clothes shopping a way of exercising demons of inadequacies past, like a Maury Povich show where the picked-on and abused are now suddenly good-looking and they confront their tormenters. But, I don’t have a lot of teasing demons and I already have two sweaters from the Gap, plus I’m not sure where else to shop vengefully besides the Gap, particularly since I’m 30 years old and I don’t think I’m allowed in any other stores with smaller clothes or I’d have to register with the state. I’m blessed to lack a history that I have to avenge now, but at the same time, how great would it be if I had one.

That’s the real problem here, and why I haven’t posted in a while. When I take to the keyboard in the mornings, I try to think of ways I’ve been nailed to a highly-reinforced cross due to my weight, but I never was. The pressure about my weight came from within, never without and even then it was more of a general self-loathing, a kind of depression aimed at my fatness. I never felt judged or wronged or shunned or anything that amounts to drama about my weight. And those moments of true self-loathing where I’d abuse myself were fleeting and I’d move on. Truth of the matter, I’m too good-humored and reasoned about my weight to make anything interesting with it. I never wanted to be like anyone else and never saw my weight as getting in the way of being popular, loved, or having any emotional needs met. I got along. At least that’s the way I feel right now.

I mean, smaller clothes? That’s it? That’s the source of all this joy? It’s weird, right? Clothes?  So what.  It’s fucking clothes and we all wear them.  It feels weird to me especially since I’m wearing pretty much exactly what I was wearing before, just in smaller sizes and they were never a huge part of my life. Why do I get so fixated on the clothing aspect of this whole weight loss? Are pants from the store fundamentally different than pants from Old Navy’s website? Not really. Blue jeans are blue jeans. Button-up shirts and button-up shirts. Polos are polos. Colors and design may alter a little, but it’s the same damn genus of clothing.

Maybe clothing played a bigger part in my life than what I realize, like I was somehow harboring jealous thoughts of all those boys in high school who wore Tommy Hilfiger shirts and whatever else was popular to wear then. It doesn’t change the fact that wearing smaller clothes makes me very happy, I just wish I knew why.


The Man

March 20, 2010

We should all be like Stan Musial.

A Change of Plans and Pants

March 13, 2010

I had intended on writing this long ranty post about how I failed to lose the five pounds I wanted to last month. Actually, I did write it and it’s saved onto my netbook and needs finishing (but not polishing, we only draft once around these parts). But, I’m not going to finish it.

Yesterday evening, I had to go out and buy a solid, dark-colored shirt for a work photo and when there I decided to replace a pair of blue jeans I have that never really fit right (stupid low-rise pants). On a whim, I tried on a pair of 36 waist pants. And the sons-a-bitches fit!

At my biggest, I was a 46 waist, moving toward 48 probably. So I’ve lost 10 inches. Hot damn! Take that, pants! Yeah! Oh, and the shirt I bought, it’s was a regular Large. Not extra large, but just straight motherfucking large, yo. I’m at a point where if I need clothes or pants, like say I blow out a seam while walking on Lake Superior, I can just go to the store and get them. Just like that. Fucking-a.

Screw that ranty, self-loathing post. It’s hooray for Bryan time. Hooray. That’s over with, so now I gotta work out.

Fragment: Love Ya, Dad

March 11, 2010

Monday, my dad had a doctor’s appointment. Tuesday, he turned 58 and had to work the 2 to 10 shift, afternoons, the shift he hates the most. Wednesday, he was in the hospital all day receiving a stent for the 99% blocked artery he had. They found it on Monday, and a second artery with 70% blocked, but the doctor didn’t want to implant that one yesterday because the procedure for the first one took a long time. He spent last night in the hospital, bored, stuck watching Law & Order reruns because the channels at this hospital were different than at home. He should be going home today and he’s okay, due to head back to receive another stent for the 70% blocked artery in a couple months.
I don’t know how many stents that makes for him. More than one, for sure. I think it might be four or five. Shame on me for not knowing. Stents that keep your dad alive is something you’d want to remember and isn’t some kind of family trivia like uncle’s birthdays or the names of second cousins. I’m afraid to ask because of how it would look. Being afraid of “how it would look” makes me feel more like an ass, and it should.
My mom called and updated me about what’s going on with him while she drove home from the hospital. The arteries, the stents, how the first procedure took a very long time, but dad’s doing fine. “He has his cell phone,” she said, in passing. Just sneaked it into the conversation, telling me, but not telling me, to call him and talk to him. She mentioned it twice with all the importance of a comma. She didn’t have to hint or prod or grab me by the shirt and say, “Call your goddamn father!” like I know she wanted to as I had already intending on calling him. Best intentions being what they are, of course. If I hadn’t know about the cell phone, would I have called him? She said he was fine. Would I have called him? God, I hope so.
I called. We talked quietly.
How are you?
Call your mother?
Yeah, she called on her cell phone. Said she’s going to get some Quizno’s and fall asleep watching TV.
He laughs. Yeah, that’s about right. We’ve been at the hospital all day.
Mom said you have to go back in a couple months?
Yeah, have to do it again. It’s what happens when you get old and didn’t take care of your body when you were younger. Drink too much. Eat too much, like I did. He sighs. It’s just what happens. Worry and resignation were in his voice.
Some dumb ass got murdered up here, I say.
Really? Close to you?
No, not really. They think it’s drugs. Crack or something, I don‘t know. Happened in a bad part of town.
Could happen anywhere these days.
We both started talking at the same time here. This happens a lot when I talk with him. There are these strange echoes that happen with his cell phone, so I don’t know if I’m being rude, or just reacting to what I’m hearing. He stops, I plow ahead.
Did you see what happened in the Cardinal spring training game today?
That 19 year old pitcher they have in camp got to pitch for them today and he struck out Chris Duncan looking.
No kidding? He said with a laugh. I didn’t know that.
Well, he said with that wrapping up intonation. Guess I better go.
Yeah, I haven’t worked out yet and I got to go.
All right. Talk to you later.
Talk to you later, Dad.
And that was it. Our conversations aren’t always that labored. Usually he has more to say to me to make sure I do this, or that. He’ll then repeat it five or six times in the conversation with a little variation. When in doubt, I talk about the Cardinals because I know I can get him talking to me about it and there’s not much else to talk about.
Fathers and sons, right? Fathers and fucking sons.
What bugged me the most is that I didn’t tell him that I loved him over the phone. I’m not so stoic or worried that he’ll think I’m a fruit if I tell him that. I sent him a birthday card where you record a message that plays when you open the card. In that message, I told him that I loved him and missed him and it was easy and truthful to do in the recording. Why couldn’t I say that then, when he needed to hear it most?
There is a tension between us when it comes to moments like this, when we say hello when we see each other and hug goodbye when I have to leave, both of us want to say, “I love you” and he wants to say, “I love you. Earn a billion dollars and move next door.“ Rarely can we do it, both of us seemingly needing permission from the other to say it. Mostly, we end it with “Talk to you later” or “See you soon.” There are times when I love you can actually get said. In those moments when we can, I crack first, while hugging him and I say it quick and without the pronoun, “Love you, Dad,” and he says back, “Love you, too.” We do this while firmly patting each other on the back in that manly way while hugging. You can barely hear the words.

Weight Update

March 9, 2010

The Weight Progress page has been updated. A longer post regarding its results will arrive later.

Urinal Mechanics

March 9, 2010

When you approach the urinal, when do you start to unzip? Do you wait until you’re right in front of the urinal while in your stance, do you unzip in your approach to the urinal? How far away from the urinal is considered too far, if you’re a zip-before-you-get-there approach?

I suppose this is a question of personal style, but I think this is part of a larger discussion of male bathroom etiquette. Personally, I don’t want to fully address the urinal, be in the stance and everything and only then start to unzip and negotiating with my underpants because that takes too long. And no one likes a urinal lingerer. But, if you unzip on the approach, then you run the risk of unzipping early, looking like a pervert, especially if you’re more than one step away from the urinal with your fly down already. So there’s gotta be the perfect urinal mechanics. What do you think they are?