Tender Resignation
As I reported earlier this year I turned myself 25 in February, a measure to
both simultaneously help me through the hum drum of winter and break me of the
crippling fear I developed following my twentieth birthday whereupon I realised
that youth, more specifically my youth, was like a blossoming
tulip; resplendent but only to happen once, and fleeting at that, destined to leave me with no more than some naive memories and stretch marks. Sadly I was only
able to defy my age anxiety for so long until like a rubber band umbilical
chord I came bouncing back to the dread that made me. So I’m 24 again, and since
I lost those three months to 25 I will have no choice but to reclaim them this
fall, at which point I will extend my 24th year until December.
What
I cannot however reclaim are the years of my youth that I lost to being a LARD
ASS! All of those summers of slutting it up in shorty short and showing way too
much flesh, while trying to entice everything in sight. Although knowing me I
would have probably wasted the skinny body what with my indestructible
self-awareness (thanks to some intense early childhood psychiatry) but hoop
dreams for yesterdays you can’t have are about as useful as high waisted pleated
khakis. I have to accept that despite the fact that now that I have a body I
can be more confident in, as the weather grows warmer and my desire to slut it
up grows more intense, I have no choice but to keep it covered. At my age if
you’re not demure, or at least smart looking (like how my grandma says,
“that looks smart!") you just look like an aging child, or worse still,
desperate.
Maybe Isound overly dramatic, but it’s not cute, or charming when you meet someone my
age who doesn’t seem to have any dignity or self consciousness.
I’m not saying we should all sit in front of the mirror scrutinizing every
single signifier on our L.J.’s but if it’s ironic, neon coloured, more flesh
than fabric, or P.V.C, you need to leave that shit for the kids. Also to be
avoided are: rock band t-shirt, anything with a slogan or logo, bug-eye glasses
(not that that was ever a problem for me) and bling not to mention pling,
kaching and the dingaling.
I
accept that unless I become a successful touring musician, I cannot ever again
(except maybe in the most gay of contexts and pride day wont cut it) sport
underwear as outerwear, this is of particular sadness, cause my legs are the
shit, and so is my basket… I will just have to be content remembering the times
I did do dare, making nudie pics for friendster and enjoying what I can vicariously/lecherously through the youths of tomorrow,
although I wish they’d slow down a little, I can’t even catch my breath.
The
worst, I repeat worst was going out to footwork last week, which was actually
the bomb, the DJ was kickass and he played my two favourite new songs the 3 6
Mafia Stay Fly remix and Gwen Stefani Luxurious remix, bitch aint never sounded
better. But what was worst about it were the 19 and 20 year old boys trying to
get my attention, looking at me the way I once looked at older men, not just
lusty, exotic. As a 24 or 25 year old (although I’m sure those kiddies would
have guessed I was 30) I am exotic to them, an older more experienced man (if
they only knew) and my utter lack of interest in their antics, just fortifies
that divide. Sure I’m far from my
pasture grazing days, but I am equally unqualified to live a carefree existence
naively believing that one day it will all come easily to me, and glamour will
be as natural to me as waking up with a hardon, which makes me wonder how much
longer I get to do that for?
I’m not quite ready to retire my booty shorts so I will hold onto them for playing
tennis and rollerblading. It’s not slutty or inappropriate if it’s athletic
apparel.
BGA
