I’m gonna start at the heart of it, and I hope you hear where I’m coming from. Cause, see, ultimately, it’s all about your guts. Not your bravery. There’s nothing brave about wearing those jeans. No, I’m talking about your actual guts. The ones in your stomach. Because when your forty, your guts are forty. They’re heavy and they’re tired.
And look, I mean, you’re certainly not fat. That’s not what I’m saying. No, you and your guts are absolutely in shape… for forty. But let’s be honest, your guts have been to too many parties and had ancillary but fleeting sex with too many women. Your guts have lost your car in too many parking lots, your dreams in too many distractions, your way in too many diversions and that “great and perfect girl” to too many better dudes. Your guts are tired and they’re wrenched in hidden, permanent knots. Your guts now fear many of the things they used to love, like chili burgers, LSD and women high on cocaine. You once weighed one hundred and fifty pounds, but you somehow have taken on an extra thirty pounds of existential fretting and binge TV watching weight. That’s one hundred and eighty pounds for a man who stands at about five-ten. No bad at all. But that feat has imbued you with overconfidence, my friend. So here you are now, hobbling around in black skinny jeans that make your legs look like those thin flexible pencils girls used to use in junior high. And by that I mean when you and I were in Junior High. Twenty-five years ago. Because your forty… for fuck’s sake.
On twenty year-olds skinny jeans look great. Sleek, crisp and puckish, they accentuate the sparse scaffolding of youth. But on you, with your softening ass, the general lazy surface tension of your entire dermis and… yes, your forty year-old guts that, while not fat, still bulb out, slacking just above the front belt line enough to make you look like an oversized third-world baby with a tiny bloated-by-malnourishment stomach, they just look… well… silly.
I’m telling you this, because we are brothers. Because we all need to do our best to age gracefully, stay hip and keep it real. So honestly, heed me and beware of the skinny jeans…
Oh yeah, and the faux hawk… I don’t think kids even wear that anymore… though a real mohawk is timeless and ageless (see accompanying picture for commitment to this stance), so have a little guts, i.e. bravery, and go for the real deal, you fucking poser.
And the blazer over the hoodie too. Seriously. I think the Gap marketed a blazer with a hoody sewn into it like three years ago. And you know what that means. It means only Canadians wear it now.
Anyway, just trying to help.
Signed, grumpy, judgmental old man,