I haven’t been back to New York in
forever. Dear God it’s changed since I
lived here in the 1980s - so much so, I
got lost in my old stomping grounds for lack of familiar buildings and familiar
queues of danger- like litter-cluttered streets backing into stoops of brownstones
peppered with unfriendly, darkened windows screaming to not venture further.
I woke up this morning in my swanky east-side hotel ranked
“Hip” on Hotel Tonight - The William. Indeed, it is. My room is a vision in white; white walls,
white ceiling, white porcelain floor, white bed punctuated with just four small
pillows in blue – for color. Standing in
front of the mirror, which was floor to ceiling and the entire wall, was like
dressing in the white clouds of heaven - in epic IMAX mode.
As I stood there buttoning my jeans in front of Zeus, Thor and Isis, I
mentally reviewed last night’s adventure. I found myself making numerous adjustments to my
clothes, my posture, the viewing angle, morphing my facial expressions with
each angle shift until I suddenly realized I was breaking a sweat from all the
machinations. Something was up.
It was all the lacking real estate inside my clothes. I was a bag man next to all these tailor-dressed
fancy-pants (literally) New Yorkers. From puberty
to grave, tight-fitting clothes have become the law of the land in Manhattan,
but without fail – EVER – it’s tight fitting pants. From jeans to khakis, professional slacks to
sporting gear, IT’S ALL TIGHT.
Mind you, I’m not complaining for the visuals are like a
fine wine paired with an excellent cheese on top of a tasty cracker everywhere
I look. But standing there in front of that big
frigging mirror in my hotel room, I felt like I was swimming in my clothes. Granted, in the bigger, more important
picture, I don’t really care because it ranks below the things I find most
important (like my character), but I did have a moment’s realization that if I stepped
outside again, I may get picked up and taken to a land fill; I look like a fashion relic in contrast to
everyone here.
Clothes don’t make the man, but they sure do make the man
look better. So long as the clothes
don’t define me, I see no problem with wanting to donne on some of that sexy
gear myself, which had me thinking,
“What would Jesus do?” Would he in all
his great wisdom, if alive and walking the streets of New York today, insist
upon wearing a white robe? Me thinks not. He would lose his credibility as the
“everyman.” No. If Jesus were alive and living in New York
City, he would be wearing tight fitting jeans.
