Wardrobe Malfunction

I need a new wardrobe.

Really.

And if you know me, I am guessing you never thought you'd hear that sentence coming from my mouth...or fingers.

The truth of the matter, however, is that I own too many clothes that fit like garbage bags. Once upon a time, that would have brought me great comfort. When you grow up rail-thin and every person in your family and neighborhood constantly tells you how skinny you are and you have, oh, a ton of other subtle psychological issues that need attending to, well ... you kind of naturally gravitate toward wearing things like giant windbreakers, baggy jeans, big sweatshirts, overalls, and really long flannel shirts. (OK, the flannel shirts probably came from a weird hybrid of growing up in Oregon and loving Boy George in 1983, but still.)

I could continue to blame the '80s--as I like to do for so many other things that have afflicted me--but the truth of the matter is that it only comes down to self-esteem. And until recently the baggy clothes never seemed to be an issue. It's not like anyone pulled me aside to say, "You know, Mikel, we're concerned about the size of your clothes in relation to your body." They were too busy dealing with me having a retort for everything they said.

The baggy clothes phenomenon probably reached its apex in college, when I spent far too much time being dressed against the cold of Vermont and for the dirt of the ceramics studio. Plus, I tended to buy everything second-hand, so I took what I could get. Yet, even after college, the clothes followed me--through low-paying jobs in New York and L.A. I couldn't really shake them. Nor did I want to. Baggy simply equaled comfort.

The older I get, however, I more I see that clothes that don't fit me do me absolutely no favors. I first noticed it back at my 10-year high-school reunion, when a few people whom I had thought were really exceptional physical specimens were starting to look a little...not so exceptional. I reassessed my vintage polyester shirts that were maybe a size too large and thought, "You know, I could probably do better."

I am inherently lazy when it comes to clothes. I don't want to work at it. Yet, it also helps I'd gained some weight in the last 10 years. Not like Oprah kind of weight. Just that kind of healthy, getting older kind of weight. So instead of looking like I have had mono for two years, I look like I actually eat food.

These days, I am in the midst of developing muscles in my shoulders and arms as a byproduct of trapeze work. The noticeable result is that things just fit differently. I am still skinny-ish, mind you. But I'm also not 11, socially awkward, and worried I'm gonna get my ass kicked on a daily basis. Imagine.

So, suddenly there I am one night, staring at a closet full of clothes from five, even 10, years ago, and wondering who bought them. Do I need that XL t-shirt? Why do I have a dress shirt in the wrong size? Why did I buy those Levi's that make my thighs swim in denim? What is with these giant sweaters?

When I wear a pair of pants that fit correctly, people now notice. They ask me where I bought them. No one points a finger and says, "God, you're SO skinny" before hissing at me a la "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." And then I realize, "Ah, yes. I don't hate my body anymore." How nice to learn that before it begins to fall apart.

Last week, I dreamed I set fire to a giant pile of my clothing. Which, for the record, I would never do. I'd obviously give it all to a thrift store...and let some 20-year-old skinny gay boy buy all the pieces. But now what? Expend hours upon hours of hunting for that non-stained, fitted shirt at a vintage shop? Go to Target and buy all the large boys' clothing that fits me perfectly? Resort to wearing high-water pants because the waist size is perfect? Resolve to only wear one pair of pants and a nice t-shirt for the rest of my life? Bribe Ryan to re-sew all of my clothes so they actually fit me? Maybe I can run for vice president and get personal shoppers? It seems arduous, no matter what.

I told Ryan last week I needed him to come stand in my closet with me and look at my clothes. I imagine a "work scene"--again, like in an '80s teen flick--in which I try on every article and he frowns, smiles, or claps with an affirmed "That looks good!" The man knows his clothes, after all. Or maybe I'll invite a whole bunch of people over for the baggy runway show, in which I model everything that no longer fits...physically or psychologically. Call it shallow catharsis if you like. I need to go choose the right song for the scene.