Every once in a while, I get reminded that it’s not 1992 any more.
Happened once late in the decade when I showed up at work at a different job on “Just-Roll-Out-of-Bed Friday.” I was wearing a Champion sweatshirt I’d bought shortly after high school that had remained in my rotation. Rotation — who am I kidding? My wardrobe consists largely of things without holes worn into them (definites) and things with holes worn into them (maybes).
That day, the guy in the cubicle across the way — closer to 20 than me — told me Champion sweatshirts had stopped being acceptable shortly after skin-tight, stone-washed jeans.
As I attempted to cover the skin-tight, stone-washed jeans I was wearing at the time with a newspaper, a question occurred to me. When had I become so lame?
Somewhere around the time that Hair Metal gave way for Grunge, Planet Landauer suffered a fashion ice age. I assumed I knew what I was doing. Chess King, Ocean Pacific and rolling the cuffs on your jeans? Cool.
Today, I’m told it’s lame to wear a hood-less sweatshirt. Chess King went out of business and all the jeans I’m seeing are suspiciously unfurled. I’m groping around in a dark walk-in closet stuffed with paisley shirts, faded polos and … yes … jorts.
How do I save myself? Where do I turn for fashion sense? And more importantly, I’m no longer in my 20s — is it even creepier to TRY?