You know how people buy special Lululemon stuff to go run or yogacize in?
I’m not one of ‘em.
It’s not just cuzza some special hipster stance, either. Even though they’re another horn ‘n pitchfork corporation like the rest of ‘em out there, it’s admittedly a tough decision when a given brand arguably makes even the pancake-iest ass look at least a few clicks more Brazilian once your back hams are tucked inside of them. And while it’d be nice to have a wardrobe full’a stuff that makes my booty look like two muscular bubbles, it’s just not a priority for me because of 1.) Apathy and 2.) Poverty. Which makes me, obviously, resort to stuff like my high school “I should donate this to the Goodwill but I’m too lazy” collection of tees that are pretty much fine other than the fact that the brand isn’t that cool anymore and I irrationally worry that I might look douchey donning it.
No, not because I would look outta synch with fashion trends.
Alright, maybe a bit. But also because between its fadedness and the brand scrawled across it, it’s like a red flag that I haven’t revamped my cardio wardrobe since I was 15 and probably haven’t matured as a human being either (Which is 94% true. At least. But why I gotta air my dirty – and expired style – laundry?). For example, another brand that used to be the big thing eleventy-hundred years ago when they marketed their stuff with rosy cheeked Greek gods who shared an inverse relationship between body meat and skull meat. Abercrombie & Fitch. Who’ve interestingly enough, now refurbished their image to something unimaginably boring and G rated.
(Ab tally: I count exactly zero six packs on the home page. How about you?
Did Mike Jeffries die? Lose his libido?
Have a spiritual awakening while visiting some Eastern country?)
Anyway, I couldn’t help but think of this as I picked up one of my old A&F tees the other day. Much like the rest of the others I’ve relegated to workout gear (i.e. my Pacific Sunwear collection, that I’ll never be ashamed of, for some reason) I tried to determine how awkward I felt putting it on and body-displaying it in public. And you know what I realized? Like the rest of ‘em, I kinda cared but I also kinda don’t care. On the one hand – why should I feel bad about wearing that ol’ thang when I proudly rock the gym shorts I got that same Freshman year? On the other, though, I kinda don’t wanna do anything – including sweat – in a sweatshop corporation’s duds. Also, if even Fitch is saying its image makeover is so overdue that they’re even willing to eschew using sex to sell stuff (unimaginable)… then maybe it’s time for me to, too. (Revamp, that is – not sex-sell. Though, if I remain this poor, it’s a field I’ve not yet ruled out…) In the end, I know it’d be a waste to replace it with some expensive other-brand that’s just gonna be outdated in a few years too (and be just as inhumane as its cohorts). So I won’t. I’ll use the shirt. As a rag. To do my cleaning with while I’m waiting for the laundry to finish the shirts that don’t make me wax wardrobe and human rights philosophical for fifteen minutes when all I’m about to do is go jog somewhere no one’s gonna see me anyway.
From now on, I’mma make every new clothing addition pass the “no visible brand name” screening process.