Introspective Sunday.

This is what we do on Sunday: we gather ‘round the laptop and swear to work out tomorrow and as the light fades in the western window, we think, fair maids and misters.

I was at a barbeque last night, and I noticed that the gentlemen all had very, very dirty feet. These crunchy knights had traversed the backyard all day long - trouncing foes at rounds of hippie horseshoes, slaying dragons, eating pulled pork - so filth was inevitable. I gave one a goodbye hug and almost audibly gagged.

My first style star was my mother’s older brother Marc. A hash-smoking hippie with a handlebar moustache, he eventually rejoined the mainstream but couldn’t quite shake those free-wheeling tendencies. He reeked. I picture him now and see khaki shorts spotted with booze and condiment stains, a Saab convertible littered with lottery tickets and cassette tapes. I see wrinkled polo shirts with collars turned up even when he did not intentionally pop them. Oh God, he would never have done so on purpose. I don’t believe that for one moment he was ever actually aware of what he wore. He dressed like the Southern gentleman he was - and also like he had taken one too many dives in the ocean, smoked a pack of Reds, and then crawled out of general admission at a Grateful Dead show. Now there was a guy who could dress. 

(My father is similarly uninterested in his everyday garb, however he cares deeply about fedoras and jewel-toned velvet smoking jackets, and I am sure he still wears his seersucker suit pants to mow the lawn.)

All my life I have searched for a man just like my dad and my Uncle Marc: a man who makes me swoon…due to our mutual love and also due to his B.O.

I am staging a revolution. Men should smell like Outside. Let’s bring stinky back in 2010. I’m so sick of these pretty city boys in their designer jeans (cuffed just so!) and their nouveau Brooks Brothers shirts drinking forty dollar glasses of rye. Fuck off. Give me a boy who doesn’t have the slightest clue what pants he put on this morning. Give me a boy who hates to wash his hair. Give me these boys, readers, and I will show you men.

  1. jesswanderlust reblogged this from caryrandolph and added:
    Hell yes. Read the whole thing and join the revolution.
  2. thecooknook said: you do more than i do on sunday. i specifically reserve sunday for a funday which means lots (and lots!!!) of day drinking. it’s the truest test of the fittest, you know.
  3. caryrandolph posted this