Give Me Them Digits, Girl.

Someone please explain to me the miracle that is the cute girl hanging out with the dude "playing in the minors." You've got this guy; bearded; glasses; really long, stringy hair stuffed under a crappy cadet hat; wearing cargo khakis with a pull over sweater that looks like it might have some bong water stains, and the absolutely cute chick who is a third the guy's size; wearing a cute plaid skirt; nice skin; and great make-up. 

In my head, this scenario NEVER works out for the ugly fat dude and the cute girl leaves without giving the underdog another shot. Secretly, I'm pissed at the guy because in my head, I could have been the next "underdog" she decided to give a shot, but now that's ruined. Thanks a lot, fatty cargo ass! 

That's when I realize that I'm not the underdog and I'm not playing in the minors. I'm playing for the big leagues and on the winning team. Unfortunately, I'm also not taking any shots (switching it up to soccer). I've been spending most of my time just passing the ball along and not driving it at the keeper. To be honest, had my love-life been an actual player, I'd make excuses that he's creating opportunities for other players before I truly hated him for never crushing the ball when the opportunity showed itself.

Now, I'm not actually upset with myself about my love-life. If anything, I'm pretty proud that I haven't put up with any BS since college. Seeing some of my friends go through the crap they dealt with this past year really raised my confidence in that decision. It's been one that I've stuck to, but it's sometimes the one in which I wonder if I've put too much weight on. Seems like I've decided not to deal with any BS that when I get even a hint of it, I immediately write a girl off and move on to the next one. Unfortunately, the 'next one' tends to take her time.

Playing in the top league does mean that I have to really start playing like I know I belong there. I've got my friends cheering me on; telling me I'm awesome; reassuring me that I deserve the best, but I still have a tough time believing them. The worst part is that I'm absolutely terrible when it comes to picking up on a girl's hints. I'm pretty sure this has been mentioned in a post before, but if it hasn't, you've probably heard me say it in person. I'm completely oblivious to them.

A few months ago, I wrote a post where I called myself a "green beret of vagina". This title has never helped me out when it comes to women. Something in my brain shuts off when I'm talking to a girl I dig and I can't tell if she's into me. Sure, I can strike up a conversation with any person in a room (Nazis excluded from that list) and have a really good time, but I can never tell if I should ask for a girl's number. It's a weird feeling knowing that I can talk to someone with such ease, but not know if a girl would be into continuing the conversation over dinner. Maybe I'm just too polite and focused on having a good time. One thing that's for certain is that I'm ready for my chance to smack the ball into the open net and hear the roar of the crowd - or just hearing my friends say "cool." 

The crazy part about the scene I described up top is that the guy was the bored one. That pompous jerk.

Do These Pleats Go With My Vans?

A few posts ago, I talked about how grateful I was for women's fashion this season. I saluted legs and gave a hearty thank you to short dresses. There was also my mention of legs and my appreciation for them. Then my sister reads my entry and tells me that I'm being a bit of a creep. And know what? She was a little right about it.

I don't feel that I was much of a creep in the sense of the kiddie pool character of that blog. It was more in the "I'm a daily schlub" kind of way. Although appreciated, I had become more or less a version of the construction worker, cat calling women as they walk past.

That's when I stepped back and took a look at myself and some guys around me and noticed a few things. 

Now, I'm not going to use this time to take shots at myself and my fellow males. It's a given that a lot of men have a sense of fashion. We can pretty much tell that by the onslaught of male names on brands when we're walking through the mall or flipping through the pages of a magazine. And no, Sean John does not count. It just seems that there's a loss of translation between what's on the racks and magazine pages, and what we men are actually wearing. 

We're strictly talking about summer wear here. So, what's with the mock shorts that end half way down the shin? I like to think that someone accidentally shrunk the remaining stock of JNCOs and made millions selling them as shorts. This isn't a call to arms for short shorts either. No one should ever be subjected to the torture of seeing that much "guy thigh".

We're also very guilty of wearing graphic tees far too often. Yes, they're comfortable and some of them are funny, but that's the same excuse that women are using for Uggs. My wardrobe would be a lot better off with some nice button downs and clean tees. I can't do v-necks, though.

I hope to dress like the older gentleman who was sitting next to me while I started writing this. He had on a pair of khakis with a light white dress shirt. He was untucked, but not unkempt and his shoes were the perfect loafer that ask, "am I walking around the office or the backyard of a friend's place?" I don't want to dress like him today, but definitely in my years to come.

Plus, it's hip to dress a bit trashy, right? Are kids still using "hip" these days?