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Writer's pictureNathan Coley

Go Get Dressed, and Don't Come Back Until You Are You

One of the first clues that I live my emotional life on the borderlands should have been this: one year, a family member and a friend both dressed up as ME, your unstable author, for the annual Halloween party at my home.


They did not coordinate with each other for this gag. As it turns out, my manner of dress was so embarrassing then (this happened about 10 years ago) that my appearance immediately screamed: Halloween costume. If I had failed that badly at blending in with my species, how could I blame anyone for this? Serves me right as far a I can tell.


It become clear to me that if there were something of an official uniform for life, I had missed the memo, and bafflingly so. Seriously. Walking next to me in public can require a tremendous amount of courage, and it wasn’t always this way. At one point in the stages of my development as a human, I did wear the sorts of things that humans wear: khaki pants, polos, button up shirts. Shoes with laces on them. I remember this time well, but that was then, long long, ago.


Nowadays, this “business causal” description reads more to me like, “You must put on formal clothes and be unhappy.”


Irrational, I know, but please stay with me. I promised you transparency on this blog, not sense. Ok?


Ok.


And just what do I look like these days, and why didn’t I tell you earlier?


Simple. I am always going to make you work for the best details. Here’s the deal: I get your attention for more than 10 seconds, and you will have the material for conversations that start with, “Oh goodness gracious, have you heard about Nathan?” Fair is fair is fair.


Starting at the top and going down:


Hats. I wear lots of hats that say and represent lots of things, from inspirational sayings to one word logos to athletic logos. I love standard baseball caps with flat brims. I love baseball hats that are adjustable and bendable. I have lately rediscovered my love for berets as well.


If you want people in public to occasionally call you “Pierre,” I can help. If you’re name is already Pierre, you can disregard this notice.


Moving down? I always go for self-expression on the shirts, which are a mix of graphic t-shirts that represent my love of horror cinema, music, and pop culture in general. My dress is always trying to tell you what I like. My dresser is the overstuffed story of the songs, games, characters, and films that put a smile on my face. For me, I suppose it is a way of saying, “See! Look at the all the cool things I like! Surely you must love me now. Surely you must love me now.”


Surely.


Time to get to the pants.


If I can help it, and unless I suspect that the consequences of doing so would be very bad for my life goals, I am putting on athletic shorts. I prefer clothing that is so light that I hardly know it’s there half the time, and this is not something I get from a pair of jeans, or even a pair of my formerly beloved canvas cargo shorts (who have since been jilted by the seductive powers of fanny packs, another questionable decision of your author). I wear cargo shorts in virtually all weather as well. If you see me in full blown pants while on errands during the winter, that means it has gone below 15 degrees and I am mildly concerned that death is a possibility. Incidentally, this is also one of the few times you will see me in a winter coat.


Moving down from the pants, and up and over the knees (weeeeee!) you will find one of the more recent additions to my uniform: long, patterned socks.


Over the past year, I’ve realized just how much I love the feeling of a long sock. To me there’s something very secure and assuring in the way that a good fitting one clings to the leg (I suspect that this also relates to my need for touch, as well as the fear of abandonment that goes along with it). As my BPD constantly drives me to visible self expression, my socks naturally have to do more than show a flat black or white color. Mine need to say something. Give me Ramen Noodles. Toss in Pennywise the Clown. Invite Wonder Woman. Bring something outrageous, like bright, pink, pixelated flowers. Plaid is cool. Polka dots are better. Any sock that will make my wife say:


Is that what we’re going with today?


And yes, we are going with that, and more, because we haven’t gotten to the pride and joy of what makes people cross the street when they see me coming. This is, of course, the infamous CrocPile of western PA. I have a rotation of Crocs that is destined to be the focal point of an annual pilgrimage; some of them are just simple colors and patterns, others are much more fun. One pair of mine represents Lucky Charms, and another Cheerios. I have a pair of “Western” themed clogs that have functional charms on them, such as a canteen and a rope. One pair represents all major and minor characters from Charles Schultz’s Peanuts, while yet another tells people that Batman isn’t just for kids. At least I think he isn’t.


Ah, once again, I can hear that still, sweet, tender, baffled voice:


Is this what we’re going with today?


During one of my outpatient therapy sessions, a peer of mine noticed that I always wore fun socks to each session. She dubbed me with the name “Happy socks,” and cheerfully started buying similar graphic designs for herself. After awhile, it became great fun for one to see what the other had on. It was a real fashion show, at least as much as we could make one.


As I sat in therapy one day, looking around the room at the faces of the group, I got on the topic of why I dress the way I do. I initially decided that the way I dress was simply, “The outfit that life on this rotten planet deserves.” Life can be pretty rotten at times, so it was easy for us to have a good laugh.


Ha ha!


But I had this all wrong. Planet earth doesn’t deserve anything. It just happens to be that one place that is suited for life. I found myself thinking about what the third ROCK from the sun deserved, but without thinking of what I, Nathan, deserved.


And here’s what I deserve: Within reason (as I’m not out to reinvent dress at work, weddings, or funerals), I deserve to wear what I want. My own value system is clearly based in the idea that I want a hat to be a certain thing, and a pair of pants to be a certain thing, and a shirt to be a certain thing, and so forth. I am almost entirely unconcerned about how well any of my preferences mesh together. When I’m fully dressed MY way, in a way that most people would not tolerate at gun point, I feel like I am finally me.


I used think, “People can’t take me anywhere.”


Now I think: if you take me somewhere, you’re at least going to get ME.


Somewhere there is an outfit that is really, truly you, and you’re not in it yet.


Go find it.




Yours Mentally,


Nathan




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