Empty Calories & Male Curiosity, #37 🥃

Gents, Just Because Joe Burrow Is A Stud, It Doesn’t Mean We Want To See Your Ankles

QUICK HITTERS:

1. But first, dogs:

2. This week Travis and I talked about a bunch of stuff on the SilentPunt Podcast (here). Our discussion on Israel & Palestine seemed to interest some folks. So naturally, as I perused my books, I picked one about religion. No Man Knows My History: The Life of Joseph Smith, by Fawn M. Brodie, tells the story of the creation of the Mormon religion.

   

   Darla doesn’t wear magic underpants.

   In a word, this story is RE-DONK-U-LUS. I’m pretty sure this is why I didn’t vote for Mitt Romney. Oh what I wouldn’t do to have him in the Oval right now.

GOING DEEP:

Gents, Just Because Joe Burrow Is A Stud, It Doesn’t Mean We Want To See Your Ankles

I started writing this piece as a diatribe about those ‘men’ who have given up on life and walk their asses around in public wearing pajama pants. Unfortunately, as I wrote it, my disdain for human beings other than myself seemed to seep in a bit too much.

(Sample paragraph: Pajamas? How big of a piece of shit do you have to be as a grown man to walk around in broad daylight in pajamas? You may as well be wearing a sign that reads, “I am currently living with my mother, love cats & Mountain Dew, and am possibly infertile.”)

Apparently real men are dog lovers in my post-tumor, pre-CTE brain.

So, I shelved the entire thing.

Then a funny thing happened. I started to see more pants that bothered me. 

And not just joggers. 

A few years ago, the trend of wearing funky socks came in for men. Which meant guys started wearing their pants a little higher on their ankles in order to show off said socks. 

Again, fine. 

As men, we don’t have as many ways to accessorize and fashionize ourselves as women. So, this seemed reasonable. Not so reasonable that I, as a self-respecting, lumberjack of a man, would participate in such shenanigans. 

I’ve spent a lifetime of dressing in a way so as to NOT stand out.

To blend in.

In all of my years growing up I never once wore sweatpants, let alone pajama pants, to school. And I certainly never wore joggers because they weren’t even a thing yet.

Now, I’m not saying I wore nice pants. Unless you consider OshKosh B’Gosh slacks from Kmart nice. But they were pants. And I may only have had three or four pairs, but my mom made damn sure they were clean before I left the house. 

But I digress.

As seems to happen as we age, I’m softening on certain opinions. Including pants.

Just the other night I was watching a show on Netflix about NFL quarterbacks. One of the guys they featured, Joe Burrow, is very into fashion. 

For those of you who are not football fans, let me fill you in:

Joe Burrow is a stud.

A dog.

A bad man. 

This was Burrow SIX years ago. I can only imagine his machismo has mushroomed since then. I am verklempt.

Maybe I am just too uptight. Perhaps I should step out of my comfort zone. If Joe Burrow, a bastion of masculinity and virility can do it, surely I can as well. 

Cut to the very next morning, and I am at the car dealership getting an oil change. The waiting area is right next to the cars for sale, and therefore, the car salesmen¹. 

Then I saw it: One of the salesmen in some type of pink suit. Ladies, I know there is a name for this type of pink. You have more names for colors than Matthew McConaughey has for strains of weed. But I don’t know what type of pink it was. 

I learned the colors of the rainbow in first grade and considered that good. Mauve? Fuchsia? Cerulean? Periwinkle?

Take your commie colorboard and chat it up with Bob Ross for all I care.

(Did you know this past July 4th was the 30th anniversary of his death….can you believe that????).

But fine, the suit was pink.

Whatever.

But it was also ill-fitting. And for me to notice an ill-fitting suit you know it had to be bad. My mind immediately went to visualizing this Pillsbury Doughboy of a man squeezing into them that morning.

Jockey shorts and all. 🤮

Then the pièce de résistance: all black shoes, NO socks, and pants that stopped at the base of his calves.

THE BASE OF HIS CALVES.

He walked by time and time again. Each time, I averted my eyes. 

The Burrow-fed confidence of the previous evening had now evaporated.

So, men of America, I implore you:

• When you choose your dress pants, choose wisely.

• Do not wear pajama pants in public.

• And for the love of Pete, do not do this…..

__________

What say you IN THE COMMENTS:

• Men: Can you pull off wearing dress pants that show your ankles?

• Women: How hip do you like your man to dress? Very Hip, Mid-Hip, No-Hip?

• All: Did you get the ‘you are no Joe Burrow’ reference?

1. This has nothing to do with the story, but one of the salesmen kept looking at me. A few months ago I was in there looking for a new car, and then ghosted him because he sucked. We purchased the same type of car I was looking for from a similar dealership over an hour away. Because they had a tremendous salesperson. Shocker: it was a she.