I have never been one to be on the cutting edge of what is fashionable. Give me a pair of pants that fit and I’ll wear them until they wear out, doesn’t matter to me that they went out of style in 1982.
I’d probably still walk around in pair of parachute pants if mine still fit, which, come to think of it, no parachute pants ever really fit. I’d wear a mullet if I still had hair. The only dance I even remotely ever learned was the twist, and it would suit me to twist to Pit Bull’s new hit song “Timber.”
I don’t buy brand-name sunglasses or worry if my shirts have the right polo figure. I couldn’t care less if everyone is now doing yoga, although I do like yoga pants and encourage all fit women to wear them. Unfortunately, the only women I see wearing them out and about look like they are headed to a female sumo wrestling convention.
I don’t have a clue what brand name water I drink, but I can tell you my beer brand, good ol’ Miller Lite, is made right here in Albany, Georgia.
But maybe I need to be more conscience of being in tune with the in tune crowd.
It is important to be “in.” And, as far as I can tell, to really be in these days, well … it looks like you must be gay.
To tell you the truth, I have nothing against whoever it is that is gay. Heterosexual is clearly out and announcing one is gay is clearly in. I know the 1890s were known as the Gay ol’ ’90s, but maybe now it should be the Gay ol’ ’10s.
A SEC football player announces he is gay and becomes more famous than Johnny Football. Michelle Obama tweets how proud she is of him. For what?
A sub-par pro basketball player announces he is gay and now he’s on the front page of every paper.
Every other day another Hollywood starlet announces her sexual identity. Hoorah! You like women not men, men not women. Who cares?
Here’s the problem. I want to be “in,” too, but turning gay may be tough for me to accomplish.
Despite the accolades, I don’t think my wife would be too happy with the news. She has enough problems worrying that I’m looking at other women. I don’t think she could handle John the butcher at Publix, too.
What will my golf buddies think? They’ll have to come up with a whole new group of jokes about men instead of women.
I might need to take home decorating courses or really begin to worry about what I am wearing.
I just don’t think I’ll be able to be “in” this year.
On the positive side, most of these fads come and go. Maybe next year will be the year of the bald-headed man. I could be on the cover of Time Magazine.
Maybe Michelle Obama will tweet about me.
Email columnist T. Gamble at firstname.lastname@example.org.