Abercrombie Isn’t Really For Me Anymore.


No sooner did I give advice about dressing one’s age, than I went stumbling into Abercrombie & Fitch last night, with Sam, lured by the smell of Fierce, and the curiosity of whether or not the employees were still as hot as they once were.

The guys there (Old Town Pasadena) were no cuter than the guys at the Gap, but the store gets me every time. The clothes were a different story.

Sam had scoped out some sweat pants to work out in, so we headed into the fitting rooms with a couple of pair. One pair was a near miss, but the second, was a flashing sign that I was fooling myself. It’s not because I’m out of shape. It’s not because I couldn’t wear them if I really wanted to. It is because I am getting to the point, at 39, where I can choose to be that guy or not, and I choose not.

You know, that guy who looks like he picked up his son’s gym bag by mistake, and just figured what the heck, I don’t want to miss a workout. Or the guy who is still chasing that jock fantasy in his head, even though he did nail more than a few jocks when he was in high school AND college, thank you very much. Oh, what?

There was just something about the attitude that felt over, and as surprising as it was, staring back at me in the brushed steel-framed full-length mirror, I realized that gone are the days when my butt looked like a pair of melons in a mesh bag, and the skin on my abdomen was as thin as tissue paper, and I was really fine with it. I felt myself quietly questioning what Hugo Boss had in the way of fleece pants, or Emporio Armani even.

Sam got the gray fleece ones shown above. And he can. He’s just 32, and a big kid besides, so they look pretty hot on him. Maybe I’ll douse him in Fierce and we’ll play “A&F District Manager comes for a store check”. Grrr. I feel better already.

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