Would you look at That?! What Plaid does for a Man

The loneliness hasn't abated, but like a good capitalist, I'm finding ways to harness the bad and turn it into something to benefit me. I've made a lot of lemonade in my life. But to most of my loyal readers, this is neither here nor there-- not surprising, and not engaging. Therefore, onward and upward.
The subject I wish to broach this fine Monday morning is the complication of appearances. Sometimes I find it so striking how much time we put in to look a certain way, when we're all calling for a colorblind world. We sit on our high horses to give a hand up to the poor amongst us, all the while sniffing at their ragged clothes from the local thrift store (generally one we donate to). We tell young girls to be their own kind of beautiful, but most of them try to look like Miley Cyrus (who is, admittedly a lovely little girl), and those who don't are marginalized. You see it in the media, of course-- all the fashion pundits and tabloids-cloaked-as-magazines celebrate Queen Latifah for her beauty. Is she beautiful and an excellent role model? Absolutely. I love that woman. But at this point, she is the chosen "big and beautiful" go-to. No one dares say anything bad about the Queen (not that they should), but poor, poor Britney Spears (in so many tragic ways) and countless others are mocked if they gain a bit of weight. Unless you're pregnant or Queen Latifah, Hollywood doesn't want you showing any sign that you've eaten more than a piece of celery and a cube of cheese. Where are the gorgeous Asian women in magazines? Lucy Liu and Bai Ling seem to have the corner on that market-- one lovely and one mocked. Even the wasps aren't safe. I'm pretty sure Paris Hilton is smarter than a lot of people give her credit for, but she perpetuates the problem by playing into the offensive "dumb blond" stereotype.
But celebrities are another world, and in fact, one I know very little about these days. I think it's been ages since I picked up a copy of People magazine, and I don't have television, so fortunately I'm a little more immune to such celebrity bum-kissing/sacrificing. Still, it all trickles down to the 12-year-olds who end up at concerts, wearing light-up Playboy bunny necklaces and asking men 10 to 15 years their senior to sign their tight t-shirts (props to the boys for not signing scandalously).
Oh, there are always those so-called individuals trying to do their own thing-- on my way to Albuquerque the other night I saw this person who I couldn't quite place as a man or a woman. She was dressed like a woman, but she looked like a female impersonator. I was tempted to look longer, but society and good manners tell us it's impolite to stare. Plus, we were driving, and that gets dangerous.
Likewise, at J & B's concert (apologies to the boys' bassist, C, who I've never officially met), there was this guy from another band who thought he was Orlando Bloom in the "Lord of the Rings" movies. His long hair looked like this nasty old wig my friend Justin used to pull out every Halloween. His face was emaciated and elfin, and his skinny jeans and long wife-beater echoed a tunic and tights. He was almost beautiful, but a bit of a bore, because he was trying too hard.
Not that we don't all try. We do. And then we try to make it seem effortless. I've said it before-- I'm the ultimate poser. I am all too pleased when I dig deep into my closet and throw together the latest in a series of gypsy-chic outfits. I may look like I could go out and picket something, but at the end of the day, I'm a registered Republican (admittedly a moderate one), and I have a strong distaste for people trying to destroy society through their subtle and not-so-subtle campaigns (pot-smokers, I'm talking to you!). That's not to say that I'm really trying to be someone I'm not (you get over that after 9th grade, hopefully), but I'm saying I probably spent just as much time getting ready as my friends C & S, who decided to go a little more rock-n-roll with their looks-- heels so high you thought C would break her neck, hair so glam S could be on the cover of any of the above-mentioned magazines. S has a boyfriend, and C is taking a break because she just got out of a three-year relationship with a hot professional rugby-player/lawyer from Wales, but they still took the time to look their own brand of smashing. Because you never know who you'll meet at the Launchpad.
Add oddly enough, the boys are the same as girls. Their clothes tell the story of who they are. My brother, like my father, rarely wears anything but jeans and some sort of plaid, button-up shirt. You look at him and know he listens to old-time country music. It's what he's grown into. Because in high school he looked like Mark McGrath from Sugar Ray and loved Abercrombie. He even wore shell necklaces and also those wheelies-- I'll never forget the fam's trip to Disneyland right before his mission, when he made me pull him around on his weird, wheeled shoes. But now he's a grown-up, and works in construction. So if it's not plaid, it's not for Ben.
My brother-in-law, on the other hand, is Mr. Sport's Face. He plays everything, coaches everything, and watches everything. He's all about Polo shirts. He's handsome and looks like he and Tiger Woods would be best friends. When on occasion he wears a plaid shirt, I think, "Did you go raid Ben's closet?" Robert is a sensitive man, but you can bet no one would hassle him. Like my brother, but in his own way, he exudes masculinity. Plus he's from Texas, so you don't mess with that and all.
Then there's my cousin Jordan. He's a tougher nut to crack. He's successfully mixed genres in clothing, much like he does with his music. Visit Jordan's antique-filled farmhouse, and don't be surprised to find Curious George coloring books or Our Lady of Guadalupe beaded curtains. He prefers his shirts in neutral colors and close-fitting like a true metrosexual, but then he throws on his cowboy boots for a dash of southern gentleman. Hop in his pickup for a tour around the farm, and be prepared to listen to some Pulp right along with Alan Jackson. His lifestyle and look successfully straddle multiple cultural facets, but I suspect it might be why he has a bit of trouble with the ladies. The country girls are puzzled by the lack of plaid. The city-gals can't wrap their minds around the boots. He's having a time finding a girl who fits his brand. I keep looking for him, but until I see a girl who looks like Sheryl Crow and loves Miller High Life, nothing will do.
Perhaps Jordan's problem mirrors my own (except I don't want anyone who likes any kind of beer or alcohol). My head is turned by the man who finds balance between work and play. The problem is I'm a workaholic, and wouldn't expect that balance to be 50-50. I used to say I wanted an executive in Converse. But where do you find that? I hate the schmooziness of Corporate America-- just because you wear a suit doesn't mean you know what you're talking about. Likewise, I'm perplexed by the devil-may-care attitude of artists. And my look doesn't communicate that I'm a match for anyone. My very traditional brother married a Barbie (RN Barbie, as a matter-of-fact, and perhaps Mother-of-the-Year Barbie). My brother-in-law the sports star ended up with his Miss America (and ok, she was just Miss Central New Mexico, but besides beauty, my sis has brains, spunk, ambition, compassion, and a hundred other grand qualities). I bring to the table Martha Stewart domesticity, a pen mightier than the sword, pioneer work ethic, Don Quixote dreams, mythic loyalty, and a quest for goodness (not to mention signing bonuses like a great mix on my iPod, a house, and child-bearing hips). But you just can't communicate that based on a Rastafarian beret and plastic jewelry alone.