“Fashion Backward” by Nevin Martell, page 3

        At some point in his mid-sixties, my father decided that linen wasn’t good enough for him in the tropical climes where we often traveled. He wanted something breathable and quick drying, yet hearty enough to withstand the rigors of an active outdoorsman’s life. That’s when he discovered Tarponwear, a technologically advanced fabric company that uses a lot of ®s and ™s to describe their clothing. Basically, it’s high-tech outdoor gear made by fishermen. Unfortunately, these fishermen had the eyesight of jellyfish, because all their misguided paraphernalia only comes in unfathomably repugnant colors – dead salmon, moldy blue and anemic taupe. Just think of the wall color of your colonoscopist’s office in hell and you start to get an idea.
        Even if the colors didn’t turn your stomach, their unique and patented “venting” system certainly would have. Though Tarponwear undoubtedly cools down the wearer, the strategically placed stretches of mesh unfortunately regale bystanders with all the odors that are normally contained by a run-of-the-mill cotton shirt. So while my father could contentedly sit back and cool off with four fingers of Scotch after ten hours in a rickety fishing sloop, the rest of us were treated to an olfactory journey through his day – the stench of the catch, the vinegary wreak of sweat and the unidentifiable strains of whatever lunch my father had spilled on himself while concentrating on hooking “the big one.” All this exacerbated by the fact that my Dad always enjoyed a relaxed cocktail “hour” before dinner, so by the time we actually ate we were always torn between vomiting and wolfing down our meals.
        My whole family reacted poorly to my father’s new choices in leisurewear, but that didn’t stop him from filling his closet with more and more Tarponwear. As our complaints grew louder, his allegiance to the Tarponwear’s brand lifestyle became stronger. To this day, I’m convinced that his rebellion against style and his unwillingness to listen to his family was a big part of my parents divorce a few years later.
        My father’s unapologetic desire to flaunt convention did have one positive effect: it made me realize that I had been unfashionably out of step myself. As his poor fashion choices drove a wedge into our family, suddenly looking like no one else within a thousand mile radius didn’t seem so cool after all. All the heavy metal t-shirts, skate punk gear, historically correct costumes and odd neon color choices didn’t seem like such a good idea, because it made me stand out for all the wrong reasons. The clothes forced people to look at me, but I really just wanted to fit in and have people accept me. What I didn’t realize, until I came face-to-face with my father’s abusive clothing choices, was that people oftentimes judge us by the clothes that we wear. Unfortunately, mine were saying something like, “Warning: I am the biggest freak in the Universe.” I certainly didn’t intend to push people away just because I wanted to boast to the world that I enjoyed colors normally reserved for highway construction warning signs and that I was familiar with colonial dress codes in New England. Tarponwear was my epiphany and it changed the way I dressed forever. Now the only time you’ll find me in a deerstalker cap is at Halloween when I’m doing my best Sherlock Holmes impression.
        Not that my transformation from caterpillar to butterfly happened over night – or that it is by any means complete – but now I dress well enough that my wife even compliments my sense of style on occasion. She has great taste and I don’t want to let her down by slipping back into old bad habits that could destroy her ability to take me seriously. You can be sure that if we ever go to Puerto Rico on a romantic getaway, I’ll be leaving the skull and crossbones shorts at home. After all, there’s no reason I need to ruin the photos in my new family’s album, too.
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