By Christian Alexander
It’s just another Thursday in an otherwise unremarkable week. As per my routine, I’m wearing a pair of sweat pants complete with bleach stains and a drawstring waist sans the string, a ratty T-shirt with a hole in it and I have my pink rubber gloves on that I wear when cleaning the bathroom. I have a bandana wrapped on my head ala some 50s housewife in curlers. My face is covered with a clay masque, which followed an exfoliating masque and which itself will be followed by a soothing green tea masque.
Why am I sharing the mundane details of my cleaning and grooming habits? Because I’ve often wondered if anyone else’s weekend routine started the day before the actual night out and if it were as complex as mine. After the house has been vacuumed, dusted and scrubbed and my face has been plucked, sucked and sandblasted, it’s time for wardrobe selection. I can’t just throw on any old thing. Wardrobe needs to be appropriate for the venue, with whom you are going, mood and so forth.
I spent my formative early gay years with the lesser celebrity “jet set” in New York City. Every night was a party, a fundraiser, or some new club and there was an unspoken dress code.
The velvet ropes carefully keeping the crowds out of certain night spots were not just there to hold people back and let the “right” people in. Those ropes and the guards behind them were centurions with a flair for fashion and an eye for the “it” people. There they stood, ear pieces in, clip-boards in hand practically motionless except for their eyes which were constantly scanning the crowd to make sure who shouldn’t be waiting wasn’t. I’m not ashamed to say that, way back when, I myself was in with the “right” crowd. It may seem shallow and superficial, but damned if I didn’t have some fabulous times.
When I moved to my beloved Fort Liquordale, wardrobe proved to be just as important. The right clothes for the right clubs and, I’ll admit, also I needed to plan the “right” substances I’d be doing that evening (I no longer use or approve of the use of illicit drugs, As my readers know, I’ve made some mistakes in the past and I’ve paid very dearly for them).
South Beach, Oy! Now that was always crazy. I’d have to start prepping on a Wednesday because a new outfit had to be bought. When surrounded by men built like Abercrombie and Fitch models, who you knew would be shirtless in 12 minutes and when you’re pretty much a thin, average boy – you just had to have a designer on your ass.
Now, every time I get ready, I find myself staring blankly the same rack of clothing, hoping something I haven’t worn before would magically appear, unless of course I’d been shopping, and naturally I can never decide what to wear on the first try.
Could I squeeze into those jeans that I haven’t worn in two years but used to look so good? After a struggle of epic proportions, I find that horray, they fit well as long as I don’t breath, put anything in my pockets or have to bend over. So off they come.
After several failed attempts and growing tired of looking in the mirror, I decide on the basic black suit that I was thinking about wearing in the first place anyway. Having accomplished what I had to do, I bring my essentials (tranquilizer, my teddy bear and the remote control) to bed.
I lie in my bed and stare at the television, my thoughts ranging from should I repaint the living room to whether or not I should wear a little eyeliner tomorrow.
Yet as tomorrow arrives, and after all the work of bearing the production of going out, I decide I am too tired, instead I settle for an evening with the TV and go to bed! “Welcome to middle age.” Maybe now, I’ll buy different pairs of “designer” sheets!