The Territorial

When I was younger, I dressed like an older man. Slacks, starched shirts, and suspenders–not because I needed to hold anything up, but because I wanted people to think I was serious–about what I never figured out. I just knew I had a deep need to be mistaken for someone important.

Nowadays, I’m in my senior years–though I prefer “vintage model” to “elderly”–and my wardrobe aspirations have come full circle. I’m not trying to impress anyone anymore, not unless they’re selling tacos or hardware.

No, these days, I catch myself eyeing the younger generation and thinking, Now that looks comfortable. Then I try it–and that’s where the comedy begins.

Last week I bought a hoodie. Not the flannel-lined kind with zippers and dignity, but an honest-to-goodness baggy hoodie, just like the kids wear.

It had a mysterious logo on it that I think might be a band, a skateboard brand, or a Norwegian death cult, but I’m not sure. I also picked up a pair of those stretchy pants with drawstrings.

But the biggest hurdle came when I tried to sag my jeans a little, just like the neighbor boy does. Now, I wasn’t looking at completely embracing the look–just a modest dip, you know, as if my belt got distracted for a second.

So there I was, in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store, trying to feel young and free, when I reached up for a bag of tater tots and felt a breeze that wasn’t on the weather report. My jeans had migrated south like wintering geese, and I was flashing a bit of the ol’ adult-appropriate plastic-armored skivvies to a startled teenager who dropped his Monster Energy drink like I’d shown him the ghost of Christmas future.

That’s when I realized something important. Young folks dress like that because they can. Their bones don’t creak when they stoop, their undergarments don’t come with a waistband the size of Alaska, and they don’t need a mirror to remind them where everything used to be.

Me? I like feeling young, but I also like being able to stand up without holding onto my pants like the mast of a ship in a hurricane. I’ve come to terms with my jeans staying around my waist, my shirt covering my pants buttons, and that my shoes don’t betray me on a gravel driveway.

So, now I dress like an older man, trying not to look like a younger man trying to look older. It’s a subtle art, like growing tomatoes or avoiding family reunions.

But I’ll tell you this–the hoodie stays. It’s warm, it’s roomy, and if I spill something on it, nobody notices.

So, maybe I am finally dressing my age, but I’m just not sure which direction that is.