Undercrust?

"The address is undercrust.blogspot.com... underCRUST... no, it's a "dot" not an "at"... UNDERcrust, it's a play on words..."

I should have a card.

I rarely give out my blog address verbally – thank God. My blog isn't intended for local consumption. It's not something that I talk about around town. I'm opinionated, counter-culture, irreverent, pissed-off, outspokenly not-Christian. I have a checkered-past – mental illness and substance abuse; It's all there in my writing. Easier to keep private than to explain. My town is small, judgmental, very Christian. Like a small town from a sixties-TV show. Only it's bigger. But everyone still knows each other. Or knows of each other. And the latter makes things far worse from a gossip perspective.

I've been blogging for eighteen months. Writing consistently for a bit longer. And I've improved. A lot. Writing better, cleaner, clearer. Taking esoteric topics and poking at them until they tell a story. In that story, I include reflections about culture, about life. But mostly, reflections on myself. It's intensely personal and often revealing. Best offered to an anonymous crowd. On-line people I'll never meet.

Undercrust isn't for everyone. My posts are long, sometimes deep, or raw, or sad. They are crafted to inspire thought, evoke emotion. The social-media population prefers short and easy. Pictures, sound-bites, video-loops. Reading my blog takes time and introspection. There is an investment. And a possibility of wasted time. I believe that reading Undercrust is worth the effort, but of course, since it's my blog, it's natural for me to think this.

I joined a writers' group. It's a loose group with dozens of members, and a core of eight or ten who show up on a somewhat regular basis. We have a standing Wednesday night meeting in a bar. But only one person drinks alcohol. Everyone else has water. I'm not sure why we don't meet at the library. I suppose I'm part of the core, even though I attend less than half the meetings. The members enjoy my writing, and seem to respect my commentary. This is important to me. I see these people as real writers. Writers of achievement. Writers who have completed novels, have worked in the industry. They actually earn money by writing. Professional writers. My twelve-year-old daughter has won prize money in three contests. She's made $125 dollars with her writing. That's $125 more than me.

"So, it's undercrust.blogspot.com? What's that mean?" It's a valid question.

When I first built my blog, I was mostly writing commentary. I envisioned parlaying my blog-posts into a weekly syndicated column called Curmudgeon. I would be that old guy with bushy eye-brows in the Sunday paper who complains about everything. I'm not that old, but my eyebrows, if left unchecked, will bush with the best of them. Fortunately for me, every URL playing off the word "curmudgeon" was taken. I was forced to do some actual creative reflection. To come up with something unique.

Who am I? Or really, who am I not? Not the upper-crust. The wealthy people with a sense of propriety and decorum. A group that gains status from hanging with a uniformly affluent crowd. This isn't me. I'm polite, but I'm disdainful of protocol. Rules should be questioned before followed. Status from wealth is snobbery. I'm the opposite of the upper-crust. But "lower-crust" isn't right. It is too obvious. It implies low class. Not the image I wanted to convey.

Undercrust: It suggests something hidden. Inaccessible. Protected behind a shell. The flavorful part of a baked good. The part that isn't on display to the public, but is anticipated all the same. Something to be excavated, to be mined. Plus, the word is barely in use. It is word that I made up, that I own. Less thought went into the name than all this. It just felt right. But it is the perfect name for what my writing has become. Which is not as much societal commentary as I expected. For the most part, I'm engaged in self-analysis. Also, I keep my eyebrows trimmed.

Over eighteen months, I've generated a boat-load of content. Probably 200,000 words. Enough for two full books. Each essay stands alone, so there is no need to read my entire blog to enjoy a post, to get the point. I haven't spent any effort on web-metric tracking, so I don't really know who reads my blog. I've had thousands of page hits, but I don't know if these people actually read anything. Or how many ever come back. Based on comments and discussions, I'd estimate my readership at somewhere between four and seven consistent followers. This includes my wife. Pretty lame. Not much pay-back for a thousand hours of work.

At my writers' group the other night we talked about blogging. I'm the resident blogger, so I made sure I was there. Actually most of the more experienced writers have blogs, but as far as I know, I'm the only one who writes exclusively to blog. And even this isn't true. Principally, I write to understand myself. And I write to try to create something beautiful, or worthwhile, or interesting, or even funny. But with the exception of a few pieces winding up on the Op Ed page of my local paper, the only place my writing is ever published is on my poorly followed blog.

I'm frustrated with my writing career. Like Ray Kinsella in Shoeless Joe (aka Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams) I overly subscribe to the "they will come" mindset. The only requirement is to provide a quality product, everything else is handled by the universe. Faith, hard work and skill are rewarded. Of course, this is bullshit. There are a bazillion talented musicians, writers, dancers and artists who never make a ripple in the pond of society's collective awareness, while Ann Rice – of vampire fame – becomes a household name.

Exposure includes an aspect of luck, but it is mostly due to marketing. At my writers' group session on blogging, one of the real writers suggested that my lack of marketing is holding me back. She says I need to be on Facebook and Twitter at a minimum. Google as a social media platform is limited. This is all probably true, but I lack the energy, the interest and the understanding to do anything about it. I can't even figure out how to link my blog to a Facebook page. It isn't how I want to spend my time. I'd rather write. Or hike with my family. Or go running. Or read. Maybe I'm too lazy to "make it" as a writer.

I'm not supposed to care about followers. When I started blogging, I wrote for myself. Creating something I was proud of, creating art. My writing was inspired. My web page was beautiful. Clean and sparse, just like the essays I published on it. This was enough for me. But somewhere along the way, I started looking for props, for praise. Really I should say craving it. Page hits and followers are an obsession. I don't use this word lightly. I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I know obsessed. A lingering buzz in the back of my brain. Distracting me from being fully present in the rest of my life.

A couple of weeks ago, heading out on a beach vacation, I changed my Google and Facebook passwords. I created a random string of characters and posted them on my desktop. They cannot be memorized, at least not by me. I spent my beach week without social media. And since I've returned, I haven't touched my passwords. The only computer I can use to access my Google and Facebook accounts is at home. At home where I have my wife and kids to distract and occupy me. Where my hobbies – writing and running – keep me balanced. Where I have chores and responsibilities and limited time at a computer. My social media presence is collapsing.

I still don't understand how social media is supposed to launch me as a writer. I don't really expect to be discovered on Facebook, to be offered a book deal. But at the same time, everything I read tells me that this is a crucial step. There must be other formulas for success. Preferably one that involves simply living my life, and then writing about it. Not obsessively posting it and reviewing it on internet platforms. So far, this formula is elusive to me. I suspect that building a writing career includes networking and submitting manuscripts – just like the old days. With my new-found space, the time recouped from breaking social media's grip, I intend to revisit these options, again and again. I'll find the method that works for me. Works in a way that – like my blog name, Undercrust – just feels right to me.

Jenn, Lance & Me

Jenn Shelton keeps popping up in my life. You might be thinking "Who's Jenn Shelton?" She's a minor celebrity. A world-class ultra-marathon runner and a pretty good writer. She had a bit part in Christopher McDougall's massively bestselling Born to Run. Mostly as comic relief. The book made it seem like when she wasn't winning races, she was either lost, or drunk, or wiping out. I read an interview with her once where she said she was unfairly portrayed in Born to Run. To paraphrase: “Maybe everything written about her was technically correct, but it still wasn't fair. And not great for her career.”

Possibly, it wasn't fair, but I doubt it was bad for her career. The very fact that I read an interview with her suggests that Born to Run put her on the map. Maybe not in the ultra community, but definitely for the rest of the running world. I read Born to Run years ago, but suddenly I'm bumping into her left and right, figuratively, of course.

Last week, on a beach vacation, I read Scott Jurek's Eat & Run, his 2012 autobiographical account of his unlikely ultra career. In this book, he name-drops Shelton three or four times. As if he's trying to capture some of her status. The irony of this is that in McDougall's 2006 book, Shelton is portrayed as a star-struck kid when she meets Jurek. Now Shelton is the star. Wholesomely pretty, always smiling in pictures. Self-deprecating, acting like she doesn't have her life together. Living day-to-day, but on her own terms. She represents everyone's wild little sister. She's one of the few marketable ultra-runners.

When I returned home from the beach, I had two Trail Runner magazines waiting in my mailbox. Six weeks ago, I grabbed one in a book-store. I loved it and decided to subscribe. This always ends the same way. I'll buy a magazine at a newsstand for an absurd price. I'll see that I can subscribe for a whole year for a few dollars more than I just paid for the one issue. I wait and wait, and when the magazine arrives, there are two of them. The new month and a copy of last month, the one I've read three times while waiting for my subscription to start. Not only did I overpay for the first copy of the magazine, but I wasted eight percent of my new subscription on a magazine I've already memorized.

Jenn Shelton is a contributing editor for Trail Runner. And so far – two magazines worth of content – a pretty good one. An engaging, clean, thoughtful writer. In the July issue, she writes about a Grand Canyon running adventure with Lance Armstrong. If I have a hot-button, Armstrong is it. OK, I have more hot-buttons than I can count, but Armstrong is high on my list. Before I even started reading the article, I was crafting a letter to the editor in my head – full of contempt and smug self-righteousness. This kept my mind occupied on a scorchingly hot eight mile run.

Armstrong isn't a hero, he's a cheater. "Everyone else does it" isn't an excuse. He has no place in competitive sports, even for recreation. Gains made on performance enhancers don't disappear when the cheating stops. He dumped his wife after she nursed him through cancer. He dumped his girl-friend, Sheryl Crow, when she got cancer. I'm a counter-culture type – disdainful of those embraced by mass-media and the rest of the masses. Lance Armstrong was the anointed "prince of the fitness crowd." With his EverythingSTRONG brand and his stupid yellow bracelets. It made my eyes roll, and my head shake every time his name was mentioned, which, at his peak-popularity, was several times a week. I enjoyed his fall from grace. His clipped wings, his plummet from the clouds.

See? I'm really down on this guy. Judging him without really knowing anything about him. Unfair? That never stopped me before.

Eight miles is a long time to mull over a single subject. Eventually I softened a bit. The trail racing community hasn't banned Lance, so he has joined it. And why not? It's a perfect fit. The sport is littered with broken souls and checkered pasts. Substance abusers trading one addiction for a (questionably) healthier one. Runners who have hit the woods, not just for solitude, but to escape society. The mentally ill, the lonely souls, ex-cons, the chronically injured. It seems like every time I read something about the trail running, I'm reading about redemption.

I fit right in. A long history of alcohol abuse, social anxiety, OCD, and Tourettes. I've been a lifelong runner, but as a trail runner, I feel like I've finally found my sport. I might even say I found my identity. But this is something I work to avoid – gaining identity from activities. I've spent too much of my life putting myself in boxes : a runner, a writer, a drinker, a liberal, a guy with OCD. I took these definitions, I drew a circle around each of them, and I said "these are me". Over the past few years I've worked to switch my thinking. To see myself as something more than the contents of these circles.

There is something about trail running that appeals to the beaten-up crowd. The misfits who feel uncomfortable in polite company. Those who prefer to compete against themselves rather than against others. Pace is all but meaningless on an ungroomed trail. Speed is sacrificed to technical-ness. The ability to navigate through a rock-garden without turning an ankle. Crossing an ice-glazed stream without dunking your feet. And of course there are the hills. Hills on the roadway are rounded down to save gas, to protect car engines. Natural wooded trails tend to follow the most efficient route. Sometimes this includes switchbacks, but usually the trail is a straight line up a hill. The fastest way to the top.

The hills and terrain can be brutal, even scary. And for many (most?) trail runners, this makes a running path even more appealing. There is an element of metaphorical self-flagellation in the trail community. Embracing punishing routes as preferable, maybe even enjoyable. As if the purpose of the run is to serve penance for our weaknesses, our vices. Society won't punish us, so we need to punish ourselves.

My beach trip last week was to North Carolina's Outer Banks. There is a park there that consists of nothing but sand dunes. All of my runs in North Carolina were run barefoot on soft sandy beaches. Uneven foot-strikes and poor traction. An attempt to toughen myself up. But my favorite run of the week was hill repeats on the dunes. Simultaneously burning my quads and calves with effort. And the soles of my feet with scorching sand.

I saw hundreds of runners in North Carolina. Virtually all of them on the bike path adjoining the main roadway. I saw a few on the beach, but in hard-packed sand down by the water. None in the soft, uneven sand where the tide rarely reaches. And certainly no one running the dunes. I have to believe that if Jenn Shelton or Scott Jurek or even Lance Armstrong were there, they would be blowing past me with a big grin on their collective faces. Running away from – or possibly chasing after their demons.

After reading Shelton's essay, I'm unable to write a rebuttal. There is nothing to rebut. Jenn is not apologetic for Armstrong. In fact she's kind of mean. She calls him a prima donna. A guy motivated by a soft bed and a good meal. Not as mentally tough as the trails-heads in her circle. But she also calls him a friend. She is not judgmental of his past sins. They have nothing to do with their relationship. They like to run, to joke, to poke fun at one another. Besides being a great runner and a fine writer, Jenn seems to be a pretty good person as well. I'm glad I'm getting to know her.

Cheat

Race Day

5:00 AM. The race doesn't start until ten. Now what? Five hours! Internet news, two cups of coffee. That might eat up an hour. Some stretching? Not four hours of stretching. Can't take on a house-chore. Need to save my legs. Besides, no one else will be up for two more hours. I'm usually done running by eight o'clock. What do I do until ten?

Thankfully the pre-race jitters didn't start until yesterday. Sometimes they set in a week before, sometimes two weeks. I've been calm about this race. I've done it twice before, so I know what to expect. My training was disrupted by a lingering cold and a sore calf, so my plan is to take it easy. Start slow, have fun, and come in with a respectable, unimpressive time.

But yesterday I got an email with final race instructions. That set me off. Got me thinking about the race. A 10K trail run. Lung-burning hills. Enough rocks and roots to trip a mountain goat. Last year I pushed hard the whole race and age-grouped. This year, my legs feel great. Injury free for three or four weeks. Had a clean taper. Why am I holding back? I could smoke this race!

No. Stick with the plan. I haven't even charged my watch. Running on breath, on feel. I don't want to be a slave to pace. I don't want to stress about how slowly I'm hitting the hills. I picked out my travel music – a live Clash disk. Angry, driving music. Might help me release some steam, some tension.

It's freezing out. Frosty. What to wear? Tights? Shorts? How many layers? Which gloves? Where should I leave my stuff during the race? In my car? Too much extra walking. Should I take warm clothes for the after party? Should I have more coffee? Should I eat? What should I eat? Should I take food with me?

7:00 AM. The house is stirring. Kids are up and streaming Netflix. My wife is drinking coffee, watching me pace around the house. Go to the bathroom, foam-roll, go to the bathroom, stretch, go to the bathroom. Pack my bag. Take everything. Tights, shorts, four layers, a coat, two pairs of gloves. In the car fifteen minutes earlier than I expected. Glad to be gone -- I was driving everyone nuts.

8:45 AM. Packet pickup. Much colder than I expected. Maybe 28 degrees. The sun hasn't cleared the mountains and the trees. Everyone is shivering. Guess I'm running in tights, extra layers. Grabbed a coffee, discussed the course with other anxious runners. Too cold to stand outside. Back to the car -- my early start won me great parking. My feet are numb, heater blasting. Assess the race bag. Pin my bib to my shirt. Too low. Now crooked. Not centered. Fourth time, good enough.

9:30 AM. Pre-race briefing. Review of the course. Jokes about the perils of trail-running. Nervous laughter all around. Finally some sun is reaching the ground, much appreciated warmth. But the frost hasn't melted. I'm ditching the tights. Back to the car, back to the heater, back to the Clash. Minutes to go. Decide on my attire. Go minimalist. Shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. Plus the t-shirt with my bib. I can't possibly change that now.

10:00 AM. Halfway back in the pack, anticipating. A cannon roars and we’re running. Well, jogging. I usually start up front, set an early, unsustainable pace. This is different, more relaxing. Next mile and a half is up hill. Passing lots of runners. They’re slowing down, I'm speeding up. At the top of the hill, I'm all out. Race pace. Running with a man and woman who will be with me the rest of the race. The woman is fast and strong, but slow over the rocks. The man is a slightly stronger version of me. The woman and I pass each other several times. I wish she would just attack the technical stuff and stay in front of me. She wishes I'd quit jogging the flats and stay ahead of her. These guys are fit. And young. I must be running well, fast. I dig in.

10:42 AM. Starting up the mountain. Everyone is walking. I've vowed to run it this year. I’m not any faster, but it feels right. And I get a bit of an edge when I hit the top. I’m already running, not questioning when to restart. Back on the flats. That pair of runners pulls away from me. I'm used up, nicely. Still running hard, but no burst left.

11:06 AM. Out of the woods and onto the home stretch. I see the clock and I crack out an exhausted "Ha!" Five minutes slower than last year. But I finish strong. Folks cheer as I cross the line. My wife and kids are there. Some running friends. High-fives. A post-race beer. Camaraderie. Part of a tribe, 250 crazy souls willing to gut through a sub-freezing 10K in the mountains.

And then it's over. I go home and resume my day. I wonder if it is worth all the stress, all the worry. Yes it is. Two days later, and I'm still buzzing. Still feel the adrenaline. Picking a line through the rocks; hopping a creek; ducking a branch. Me against nature, or me in the midst of nature. Looking forward to this weekend, to my next trail run.

When Everything is Going Well

Twelve days ago, I stopped drinking, Almost. Maybe. Not sure yet. A lifetime of substance abuse. Serious and destructive in my teens, in my twenties and thirties. Under control in my forties and fifties, sort of. I drink daily, two drinks, three drinks. Never drunk but unable to quit. Afraid to quit. Always worried that without my relaxing, day-end glasses of wine, life won't be worth living. Now I'm not sure this is true.

On Sunday morning, I ran ten miles and change. Thirty years ago, I did this weekly, sometimes twice a week. Long exploring runs throughout Washington, DC. National parks, nice neighborhoods, not-so-nice neighborhoods. That was before knee-bursitis hobbled me. Limited my runs to four or five miles at a shot, my weekly total to less than fifteen. There have been times I've been able to push out longer runs, including a ten mile race three years ago, but since Sunday was actually a quarter-mile longer than ten, this was my longest run in at least twenty years.

Eighteen months ago, I started blogging.  Writing at a local coffee shop, once or twice a week. I envisioned myself a curmudgeon. I believed that I had funny, insightful complaints about society. My blog would be my outlet. I would get attention and become a syndicated columnist. Paid to bitch – everybody’s dream. This didn't happen, or it hasn't happened yet. I'm not funny, and for the most part, I only write about myself. My writing sessions have expanded to four or five per week, and the stuff that comes out, all very personal. Not about society, except in ways that I mirror society. Self-exploration in a way that has allowed me to better understand myself and make some positive changes.

And here, at the start of a new year, a time when it is natural to take stock of your life, I've been thinking about the impact that writing has had on my physical and mental health. We all have nagging thoughts. Weight issues, financial worries, chronic injuries, relationship problems. Because I have OCD, my nagging thoughts probably nag a bit more than others'. And when those thoughts become unbearable, when I develop the courage to face a topic, when I decide to spend four to eight hours thinking and writing about a problem, I often solve that problem. Probably too strong a word. Most problems are unsolvable. But I gain understanding, acceptance, peace. I change or improve the way the problem affects me.

At times we need to step back and assess. It is easy to get caught up in the problem of the day. Assume that because something isn't right, everything is wrong. By looking back at what I was concerned about a few years ago, I realize that I'm a completely different person. I'm more confident, more balanced, kinder. Actualized, at least a little. Three years ago, all I could think about was how much I hated my job. Frustration with co-workers, my boss, my pay, my responsibilities. I felt like a loser. A smallish fish in a small pond. I compared myself to those around me. Their profession, their pay, their athletic ability. Everyone was more impressive. Everyone else had their act together.

I was agitated, quick to anger, quick to put myself down. Obsessive thoughts, Tourette’s tics, chronic injuries that limited my running, my overall fitness. Social anxiety – unable to connect with those around me. That was three years ago. Today? OCD, Tourette’s Syndrome, injuries, social anxiety – they are all still present. But they leave me less agitated, less angry. As my wife’s Buddhist guru, Tara Brach would say, “by exploring these subjects, by inviting them in, by spending time with my problems, I take away their power."  

Last Monday morning, I was riding the double high of a week without alcohol, and a Sunday morning run long enough to leave me fully winded. I was buzzing. Feeling like all of my problems were solved. My OCD has been simmering on low. The unattractive retching I experience when stressed, unexpected dry-heaves, and occasionally vomiting, has disappeared. Missing for four weeks. I don’t know where it went, but I’m glad it’s gone. Tourette’s tics, omnipresent, have become a non-issue. I’ve told everyone I know that I have Tourette's Syndrome. The tics are just part of who I am. Take me or leave me.

Monday morning, everything was cured. Throw away the Prozac and cancel my therapy appointments. Sign up for a marathon and book me to give a presentation at the chamber of commerce. I was fixed. My blogging, my self-analysis, my therapy, my incessant foam rolling. Changes to my running style, my form.  All of the things I’ve incorporated to combat these problems, they worked. Not a problem left in the world.

Monday afternoon, I was a mess. Elevated, agitated beyond belief. Obsessing about everything in my life. Unable to focus at work, unable to control my tics, even a little. I know these ups and downs are part of mental illness, and actually part of everyone's life. Mine are likely to be more dramatic than the next person's, but I am now blessed with the ability to understand what's happening. When OCD and anxiety strike, I'm not blind-sided. I don't lash out at my co-workers, my wife, my kids. I'm able to fall back on my experiences to weather the storm, knowing that tomorrow – or even later today – will be better.

For the first time since I started my self-improvement regeime of therapy and theraputic writing, I am able to look at myself, my overall being and say I'm better. Not cured. This stuff isn't curable. But I'm better, much better, than I was.

T-Shirt

This morning, I threw away a t-shirt. Not an undershirt, Haines, Fruit-of-the-Loom variety. Or one of those tank-top wife-beater shirts. But a logo shirt from the Gap. The shirt was all but disintegrated. Every time I put it on or took it off, a new tear would form. The collar was more off than on, and you could pretty much see through it. Pitching it was a big step, and the knowledge that the other shirt that I bought on the same day (actually the exact same shirt except it is grey, not white) will shortly follow leaves me feeling like I'm losing touch with some old friends.  

Like my wife, I'm sure you're thinking "Jeez, it's a t-shirt, get a new one." Not so easy. I hate shopping. I don't really hate going in stores, and I'm more willing than most men I know to help my wife shop for her clothes, I just hate to shop for myself. Every piece of clothing I buy needs to be perfect. I'm talking about that je ne sais quoi – literally. I don't know what makes a piece of clothing perfect - it just needs to 'seem' right. Maybe the fabric; always the fit; possibly the pattern, the color. I go into a store with a vague idea of what I want, and I look around until something speaks to me. And that can take minutes or days or not-at-all.

When I find a shirt or pair of pants that I like, I typically buy more than one. The polo-style shirt I'm wearing today has three matches in my drawer at home. Exact same cut and material, just different colors and patterns. All of my shorts are the same brand and style, Nautica/Windjammer, bought from the outlet store in my town. The Nautica store shut down 4 years ago, so essentially, I have a drawer full of old, stained shorts, and a fear of trying to find new ones.

Sort of lied there – I also have 2 pairs of Eddie Bauer shorts that look and feel identical to the Nauticas. Except that they are about ½ an inch shorter – and that really bugs me, I don’t like to wear them. But here's the thing, even if I don't like a piece of clothing that I've bought, I'll wear it until it is dead. So I really need to get it right the first time. This is why shopping is so stressful.

Five years ago, I lost some weight, and most of my clothes sagged off of me. I went through a huge clothing weed out. I gave a bunch of stuff to my brother, the rest to a charity sale. And I was left with empty drawers. One if the things I needed to re-buy was jeans – something I hadn't done in years. I'd worn the same cut of Levis for 15 years. When I went to buy myself some more, I found that they discontinued my style. After months of wearing huge jeans, stomping and squirming through every Kohl’s, Penny’s and Sears in a 50 mile radius trying on Levis, I finally switched to Old Navy. The 1st pair of jeans I bought there was too big. After that I got it right. I bought four additional pairs. Still I keep the too-large jeans in rotation with the other ones, even though they are uncomfortable to wear – once bought, committed 'till the end.

Last night, I went to a work function and decided to wear a sport coat. This is something I typically only do for interviews and church – which happens about 3 times a year, including weddings and funerals. My father once told me that I should always buy Joseph Banks coats because they have a 'timeless style'. This notion appeals to me, since I will wear this coat for the rest of my life. Last night's coat is twenty years old. It is still in great condition and as near as I can tell, it is still in style. Point for dad. My ties are just as old. These cannot possibly still be in style. But since I wear ties even less frequently than coats, I refuse to invest the time and energy to shop for a new tie. It will be out of style the next time I wear it, if ever.

My small town is very informal. Only the bankers and politicians wear suits. A handful of people wear ties – maybe a doctor under that useless white robe they all have. Working as one of the few male administrators of a non-profit community center gives me an opportunity to define work attire. And since I skew casual, it is shorts and polos, corduroys and sweaters. All interchangeable, all many years old. My wife frequently asks me to update my clothing. Now and then she'll buy me a shirt – button-up oxford cloth style shirt. Something with a hip pattern. So that when we go out at night, I don't look like I'm going to work. I know she's right. My style is tired, lazy. Recently, a friend saw me from far distance. She hurried to catch up with me. "I could tell it was you by the sweater” she puffed when she caught me. I have lots of different sweaters, but since that's all I wear, I guess she could tell it was me – Identifiable by my clothes, like Where's Waldo.

My drawers are full of dying friends. Turtlenecks from LL Bean, the neck part frayed completely through. Shirts with stains, shirts with holes. Corduroys with worn-out wales. And jeans, my new generation of jeans, all with mangled leg-ends – the part by the heel. This look was popular in college in 1980. Not so much now, at work.

I realize it's time for the next big weed-out. Not because of size, but the age of my clothes. My grey gap tee will soon be history. My Nautica shorts, gone. That Ramones t-shirt – sleeves hacked off, stained, shrunk so short that it looks like I've had it since 10th grade – well I might keep that one. The prospect of looking for replacements, seemingly as hard as finding a new best friend, is what delays this step. I know that once I find a style I like, a new pair of shorts from the Gap, a new t-shirt cut from Old Navy, a long-sleeve polo from Eddie Bauer, I'll buy five or six of each and be hooked-up for years. I hope.