I was embarrassed to be wearing my bluetooth headset while grocery shopping. Now, had I been having a conversation with an actual person, I would have felt more comfortable. But all I was doing was listening to a podcast. Sometimes I bring my headphones with me because, in my mind, it’s socially acceptable to be wearing headphones in public. But having a bluetooth headset is geeky and lame.

A few things. First, nobody is looking at me. On Sunday afternoons it’s a couples’ shopping experience. I was in a trendy part of Chicago and it was a lot of guys pushing strollers while their wives held up scraps of paper while shelf-scanning. I saw many women in sweatpants and other “fell out of bed” gear. This is something my sister has never understood about Chicago. That women can walk around so casually without normal clothing. She lives in the West Village in NYC, however, where the most beautiful people in this country congregate.

The other piece is that even if a woman (I don’t seem to care about judgment from men) does pay attention to me, the odds she’s judging me as lame is minimal. I’ve learned that people think a lot less about (not of) me that I would have expected. Everyone has their insecurities we think are scarlet letters for the world to shame. It almost never happens. If I see an overweight woman I don’t think ugly thoughts or pity or love or whatever other judgments I might have. I just keep walking because I don’t care what she weighs. I hardly notice.

I’m sure the same is for me and my dopey bluetooth. I just kept thinking that some beautiful goddess will stop me and ask where the gourd aisle is and then I’ll quickly rip the electronic from my ear and stick it in my sweater-coat. Somehow I’ll get her approval because I’m not a geek.

I know we all have some version of this. Something we hide away to keep people from seeing us as we are.

Even though I dealt with a little embarrassment internally, I kept it in my ear during my shopping. I did take it out while at the deli counter because I didn’t want the meat cutter ladies to think I was a jerk barking orders while talking to somebody more important. Same thing when they were ringing up the totals.

There are things that screw me up a little that keeps this craziness alive and well. I was doing some work at one of our offices yesterday and a young woman walked in to do something. We chatted a bit about nothing, and as I was leaving she said, “You have great style – I like the whole ‘look’.”

This is funny because I have no ‘look.’ I wear a solid color t-shirt, jeans, and cheap Aldo shoes. I wear the same Banana Republic sweater coat everywhere I go. So, to hear that out of nowhere was flattering. Maybe she was flirting or just being nice, or maybe even lying. Who knows? Either way, it’s comments like that where I start paying attention to my looks.

What’s important is that I notice when I run those patterns of, “Uh oh – they won’t like me if they saw/knew/heard X.” That’s about me and my shame. The truth is though that some people will judge you and run away based on who you are. But, it’s been my experience that the ones who love you almost never run. And, if they do – screw ’em. They were just a big fatso with a terrible haircut anyway.

photo credit: Leonard John Matthews via photopin cc

One of the weird body things I have that I can’t seem to change is this sweating thing.

Here’s the deal.  I don’t sweat under my armpits.  Not sure why.  I mean, maybe it’s just that I use deodarant, but I’m pretty sure most dudes do.  Some guys, though, halfway through the workday their nastiness has bled through the undershirt and into the Brooks Brothers.  It’s awful to look at, and those poor shirts just get ripped up.  Those guys might as well just buy yellow shirts to match the future armpit stains.

So, while those people disgust me and I believe they should be sterilized and also sent to the island of Crete, I have a similar issue.

I sweat at a few places on my chest and back.  This happens when it’s hot and/or humid.

Now, if you think this be normal, I assure you it isn’t.  Yes, we all sweat when we get hot.  I sweat quicker than you, and continue to long after you cool off.  I have no idea why.

I bike 20 miles a day.  I’m pretty good about what I eat.  I don’t drink alcohol or have a pill problem.  I’m probably healthier than most of Americans.  So, what’s the deal?  Maybe I just run hot.

At work if the temperature is about 73 degrees, I start sweating on my face a bit.  Again, not pits or anything, but the back of my neck.

I’ve always been this way.  So now I make provisions.  I knew I was going to be sweating like a bastard at prep school during dad’s weekend (I just came up with that – but it sort of sucks), so I brought a little tiny towel.  I bought ten of these on Ebay – they’re basically really thin washcloths.

This photo was after 60 minutes – no exaggeration – of being in ultra-cold air conditioning at the Art Institute.  I scanned each person to see a similar sweat pattern.  Not one person has even one noticeable droplet.  If we ever do a reader meet-and-greet and it’s outside, you can bring me a sweat towel that you made from needlepoint.  I’ll give you big sloppy kisses and make you rub the wet spot on my Banana Republic t-shirt.  Enjoy, and I hope you’re not eating right now.

I think most of us can agree that this is not a masculine look.   I’m not saying it’s a terrible look.   I don’t like it, personally.   But guys dress for women and men wouldn’t be wearing jeans like this if girls didn’t respond.   It’s strikingly effeminate in my opinion, and my experience with women is that they respond more to masculinity.   But what the hell do I know?   I’m old, married, and off the grid.

When it comes to clothes, I lean to the conservative.   I grew up in the Midwest, and have been wearing pretty socially-normal clothing for most of my life.   I still do.   I shop at places like Banana Republic for shirts, Lucky Brand for jeans, and Aldo for shoes.   Nothing too fancy, nothing too crazy.   Simple and clean.   It’s boring, but it looks good on me.

However, I do have one indulgence.   Or, to be more accurate, I HAD one indulgence.   Tight pants.

Now, not the same pants I just referenced earlier funneling out of a Death Cab for Cutie concert.   I’m talking about tight in the crotch.   Unfortunately, I am not joking.

How did this start?   By total accident, actually.   I was living in a studio apartment in Chicago, and single.   It was 2002.   I wanted to own just one fashionable, expensive pair of jeans.   The problem was I didn’t have any money.   I couldn’t afford to blow $150 on a pair of Diesel’s.

The interesting thing is that Levi’s had just come out that year with a premium line of jeans.   They were nearly $200, however. Way out of my price range.   However, I found a guy selling a new pair on Ebay for around $50.   The reason was that these were labeled incorrectly in size.   They were really a 34×34 (my size at the time), but listed on the jean tag as 33×34, so they couldn’t be sold at a retail outlet.

I ordered them, and was thrilled to have a nice pair of jeans coming my way.     When they arrived, they were not 34×34 as stated in the product description.   They were, in fact, 32×34.   Now, I could maybe squeeze into a 33, but not a 32.   What could I do?   No refunds allowed.

Then I noticed they were boot-cut, which turned out to be an asset even though I hadn’t ever worn a pair of boots in my life.   I tried them on, and while amazingly tight, they widened at the bottom near the feet.   In my rationale this evened out the look.   Tight on top, super loose on the bottom.   I couldn’t use my diaphragm to breathe, but who cares?   These were cool.

By the way, can we stop for a moment and discuss this word “diaphragm”?   Why is it a muscle you use as part of respiration, and also a means by which you can avoid parenthood?   I never understood that.   Change one of the names, I say.   Okay, back to story.

So, the jeans worked okay, in my opinion.   They looked fine in the mirror.   Except for one thing – you could totally make out my dong.

I must have tried to position my privates in at least seven different locations, but it was no use.   You could see everything.

However, maybe this wasn’t so bad.   Not that I wanted people being able to see my magic, but maybe nobody would even notice.   I’ve never known women to look at a guy’s crotch.   I mean, I dated a lot, and no girl ever said, “Check out the d on that fellow!”   I’ve heard women talk about a guy’s butt, but never about front-junk.   So, I said, “Screw it.”   I put my loose fitting jeans (and dignity) in the closet where they gathered dust.

I wore the tight jeans for a year or two.   To be honest, I really have no idea if I became a walking joke, or if nobody ever noticed.   I seemed to get dates, and not one woman ever said anything about how the whole bar knew that I was a “lefty.”

Fast forward a few years, and I had finally come to my senses.   I realized this was not a look I wanted to cultivate, even if nobody noticed.   My income had expanded, and I now had the ability to purchase clothes that flattered my appearance.   Also, that fit correctly.   I put the tight jeans in the closet indefinitely where they hugged a coat hanger, instead of my balls.

After I turned 28, I started dating a woman who lived in a different state.   I made plans to go visit her, and took a flight to spend the weekend.   I had told her the tight jeans story, and she had me promise to bring them down and show her what they looked like.   Essentially, she wanted to make fun of me.   But, I’m a sport so I packed them.

When I got to her condo, I threw my suitcase in her closet, and dug around to change clothes.   Before I changed, she insisted that I model the tight jeans for her.   I hadn’t put them on in years, but, quite honestly, was kind of excited, because of how funny this was going to look.   I’ll sacrifice a little “cool” for a good joke.

I grabbed the jeans from the bottom of the closet and wrestled my way into them.   It really was an effort, but I got them on.   I didn’t remember them being THIS tight, but whatever.   I thought for sure I would bust the seam, just trying to get the button fly together.   I was like, “Man, either I’ve gotten fatter, or these jeans were way more unforgiving than I remember!”

I hadn’t gotten fatter.   I had put on her jeans by mistake.

Now, let’s go back a few steps.   I have to explain something because this probably sounds worse than it was.   This woman was six feet tall.   Also thin and fit.   I’m 6′ 2″ and pretty thin myself.

But still, I had put on her jeans.   And they had fit.   Tightly and uncomfortably, but they fit.

She quietly and softly said, “Um – those are my jeans.”   I had no idea.

I laughed.   I’m not a woman.   It had never crossed my mind that she might feel embarrassed that her boyfriend could fit into her pants.   I mean, I already knew this woman was beautiful and thin.   So, what’s the big deal?

Well, I’ve told this story to a bunch of women over the years, and they all have the same response.   It’s a big deal.   So, let’s just say that it’s safe to assume her self-esteem didn’t grow leaps and bounds after this event.   I don’t know if she starting cutting or anything, but it wasn’t a good start to the weekend.   She was a real trooper though, and laughed it off.   Our relationship ended soon after that.   Not because of this, I don’t think.

A few days ago I was telling my wife that I was going to write this story, and she pulled a potentially dangerous trick on me.   She made me try on her jeans.   Now, my wife is thin, but she’s also 5’8″.   That’s not too far from 6’2″.   Plus, I happen to currently be at my thinnest in years.   I tried to weasel out of it, but she essentially forced me to put on her jeans.

See, this really isn’t a fair thing, as women are built differently then men, often with wider hips.   So, jeans for a woman tend to accommodate for this.   Plus, they use different size measurements.   For men it’s in inches.   For women, it’s a size from 0-whatever.   I don’t know the conversion.   If my wife is a size 3 (no idea what size she really is), how many inches is that?   Heck if I know.   I tried doing the math, but couldn’t figure it out.

So, I just went for it.   I was absolutely relieved to find out that I came nowhere near fitting into her jeans.   I mean, I have to share a bed with this woman.   It’s in my best interest to not fit into her jeans.   Thankfully, I didn’t.   However, I did make her take this picture.   Enjoy.