I really need a belt that fits. This one is a 34 and because of all the weight that I lost over the last two years my favorite brown leather belt, because it’s already soft and broken in and arches around me from left to right, doesn’t fit me the way it should; there’s too much hangover after its buckled in the second-to-last hole and pulled through the belt loop of my jeans. My waist is a 31.
I go to the gym to gain weight, drink Muscle Milk, lift and get skinnier. I burn too many calories and eat like a bird. I have a fast metabolism. A guy in my office started watching Netflix Instant documentaries on his iPhone at work. For two weeks he preached his newfound healthy lifestyle and commitment to Veganism, vowing only to eat organic foods. Last week I saw him eat nothing but Apples and baby carrots. Today, in the break room he highly recommended the Thai chicken wings, burger, and Bavarian pretzels if I ever dine at Quaker Steak and Lube. And part of me, the same part that made me smirk and shake my head when I said, “That lasted a week,” lost faith in humanity.
I need new clothes, new outfits. New shoes. I know how I want to look; I’ve seen it in magazines and on TV. Sometimes I see it on The CobraSnake when I’m supposed to be working. Vans, Levis, button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and I’m a new man. In the Winter I’ll rock sweaters, Cardigans if I have a choice, and slim-fit corduroys. But I’m broke and stale. People shop when they’re depressed. I’ll hunt thrift stores for vintage t-shirts and hand-me-down sweaters. You never find Cardigans, not in Western New York anyway. My daily uniforms are constituted by my work environment; it’s very casual. Jeans and vintage t-shirts mostly. Once in a while I’ll wear a shirt and tie and my coworkers promptly institute a good ribbing as though ties are reserved solely for weddings, funerals, and Christmas and Easter Church services.
The only stores that I really like to shop in are Urban Outfitters and J. Crew. UO is one of those tough-pill-to-swallow stores to admit that I shop at, an anti-establishment hipster mentality that is somehow overlooked by every shopper in the Galleria Mall with a few extra dollars in their ironic Velcro kitten wallet. I like their jeans though. It’s the only place in Buffalo I can find a pair of Levis that I like. 511’s or 514’s, I’d like a pair in every color, but I’m stuck with a pair of blue and a pair of black that are on heavy rotation every week, especially now that summer’s vanished and it smells like Halloween outside. Maybe I’ll ask for a pair of boots for Christmas? Trendy ones. J. Crew offers a classic vintage-fit button down in a variety of colors that I’d love to own, but at $59 a pop all I can think about is the 99-cent boxes of pasta and generic marinara sauce I’ll be dining on for the next month as I approach the cash register. I keep the preppy dressing room attendants busy with plenty of re-rack items.
Maybe if I made more money I’d dress better? If I had health insurance and some disposable income? Maybe I’d take more pride in my appearance, really hit the gym five times a week like I said I would? Get a physical once a year and go to an orthodontist and get these protruding wisdom teeth ripped out of my skull before they push my back teeth out? Finally get the bed that I’ve always wanted and some furniture that doesn’t make my living room look like an estate sale?
Maybe a new belt, one that fits and doesn’t hang out from underneath my vintage t-shirts like a limp pasta noodle, would change my outlook? One that’s not a 34. I’m a 31.
