Oh boy. Blast from my past, that picture is. I think I was already in my early years of college in that one. A few extra pounds all around.I was thin once. Don’t believe me? It’s true. It was before I had entered the “Husky jeans” phase. You don’t see “husky” as a size on jeans anymore. Or at least I don’t. Was that just something from before the politically correct nose-in-your-business world of today? Would that be a label that some would find “offensive”? It’s not like the word “Fat” or “Lard-ass” is emblazoned upon the beltline of jeans, now is it? There was a stigma associated with the word “Husky”. It said, “You will never fit into size 32 jeans, fatty”.
I was a fat boy. I will admit it. I do have pictures of me as a child when I was thin, but those pictures are few and far in-between. Here’s one when I was 10. I was little, but already starting the expansion of the belly. Husky jeans, here I come.
(I’m the one who is not female and not wearing overalls)
Most of the pictures I have of me are the fat ones. Ones where I am wearing my Husky sized jeans. Those jeans and my “Bo-Bo” shoes. Most of the kids were wearing Adidas, Converse, or whatever else shoe was popular in the late ‘70s-early ‘80s. My shoes? They were the Dollar General specials. No name, no brand, no “swoop”, no star, no nothing. Just shoes with soles, tongues, and strings.
(Shorts, yellow shirt, tall socks, and green hat. Quite the styler and profiler)
But back to the jeans. My grandma would buy me those jeans, usually when I was with her. Embarrassed, I was, when she couldn’t find the right size and had to ask a clerk where the Husky size jeans were. She may as well been asking where the jeans for the fat boys were. From what I can remember, they didn’t fit all that well in the area where the “package” resides. Nor in the booty area. Not that I have a butt anyway, but baggy jeans over a baggy butt? Not at all sexy, even if you consider fat 15-year old boys sexy. I remember too, she tried to have me wear these pants that were striped; striped like the uniform of the standard train conductor. I refused to wear those pants. I think I made her mad, and maybe even hurt her feelings a bit (I remember telling her to “get me a conductor’s hat that matched and I could chug-a-chug my way to school!”), but I was not going to wear those things. But I was not a brand name snob. I wanted the brand names, but really, it didn’t matter what name was on the outside…just as long as I was comfortable.
(Sporting my Bicentennial spirit)
Even then, I was self-conscious about my appearance. I always had the homemade haircut. Not the “bowl” cut, where a bowl is put on your head and the hair jutting out was cut, giving you the “Hey Moe!” look. But the haircut that everyone could tell that it wasn’t done by a barber; it was done by your mom. It wasn’t that bad, but as a kid, having your mom cut your hair was just not cool. Most of the other kids had name brand shoes, name brand jeans, PCH shirts, Super Cuts haircuts; all the things that said “we’re cool and our parents have money”. But even so, I was friends with them all…from the no-name brands to the Calvin Kleins and all things in between. Did I have girlfriends? Of course I did. Not in the sense of “true love forever and ever” type of girlfriend. They were my friends. I did have dreams of one day meeting a girl and starting a relationship. But I never thought that I ever would. Who would want a no-name wearing, homemade haircut, husky jeans sporting fat boy? No one, I thought. Well, I did think that all the way up till college, when I met the woman who shared 15 years of love and life with me, who gave me two beautiful children, who made me feel that me and my no-name brand was better than any other brand out there. Forget the Ralph Laurens and the Oleg Cassinis…I had Dollar General written all over my forehead and I suppose that was good enough. At least good enough to last a little while. Tastes change, I suppose.
(I’m the neon yellow shirt sporting fella. That shirt attracted more bugs than honey)
I think I still have some of that “no-name brand” mentality today. I haven’t bought new clothes in a long time. I buy decent used clothes from the thrift store. They may end up having a brand name on them, but that’s not what I am looking for. I am looking for something that fits; something that holds all the necessary parts where they should be held, ones that feel good against the skin, and ones that protect me from the elements. Never mind the name that is on them. Some food brands do matter, but canned peas from Save-A-Lot are the same to me as the Jolly Green Giant ones from Bi-Lo. Roundy-O’s are the same damn thing as Cheerios. Store brand orange juice tastes the same to me as Del Monte orange juice. A well thought out design and well known brand name on the label is what brings some people in; advertisers do it all the time. I don’t care. What is on the label means less to me than what is on the inside of the package. That doesn’t mean, for example, that I think the K-Mart knockoff of Birkenstocks makes them any better. They would never last as long as the true pair of “happiness and love for feet” that fit me so well. I am saying that sometimes, it just doesn’t matter. It all depends upon quality. Birkenstocks are made of quality materials…the K-mart brands aren’t. I guess is all boils down to taste and what makes me happy.
(Squeezing through an obstacle course)
I am not a thin man today. I have a “few extra pounds” on me. The clothes that I wear are ones that I have had for a long time. No Husky label, though. Well fitting and comfortable ones, either older brand new ones, or newer to me old ones. I don’t care. It’s what I like. It’s what makes me feel like me. I like me that way. I like my brand; the no-name brand. And in the end, that’s all that matters.
I like me.
I like you too.
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