As you know, I like stating the obvious. I think the fact that I can spell subtle is about as subtle as I get. And the obvious point I’d like to make is that I’m no sophisticate. I don’t like opera but I have a friend who does. Does that count? Anyway, the basics: my palate can’t tell the difference between Dom Perignon and Cold Duck. I like Ragu and have never called Italian sauce, gravy. Pigs in a blanket over sushi any day of the week. I don’t know my tailor by his first name—although I think his last name is Modell.
I did see some top 10 list article about how to be sophisticated and I nailed one: Own Your Look – No Second Guesses. The article stated, a man who owns his look or, in other words, knows he looks good without being cavalier, will always appear sophisticated.
Boom. Maybe I am sophisticated. Because I definitely own my sweat pants look. Which I don’t take lightly. Each time I slip on the sweats, I’m reminded of the Seinfeld quote: “You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.”
Step back Seinfeld. If you own it, you’re not giving up. I own comfort which basically makes me the Beau Brummell of clothes that could double as pajamas or paint clothes. And that gives me the right to offer a fashion tip: don’t wear a sweatshirt that matches sweatpants. That just makes you a Russian hit man or a Howard Beach throwback. You might as well wear a headband.
I couldn’t find much else on the how to be sophisticated list that fit me. There was something about being familiar with poets, Yeats and T.S. Eliott. What? No Dr. Seuss? What can I say, I like poetry that rhymes. Otherwise, it’s just too much work.
Somebody handed me a poem last week—and truthfully, I’d rather be handed a half-eaten sandwich by a stranger but I manned up and accepted without rolling my eyes (too much).
I don’t like opening presents in front of people because I’m pretty lame at faking joy and delight. And even if I actually enjoy the gift, even if it’s my birthday, I feel bad that I don’t have something to offer in return. I’d rather just get stiffed.
Anyway, a gift is one thing, but I sure as hell won’t open a poem. I am not cultured enough to enjoy poetry; I am not smart enough to even get it. Emily Dickinson is a famous poet who penned a poem about a dying tiger. She spun a verse: "His Mighty Balls—in death were thick,"—which made me snicker because I am not sophisticated. There was no rhyme but mighty balls was imagery I could appreciate. Well, just two lines later, well after my snicker, I came to learn that mighty balls referred to the tiger’s eyeballs. Oops, my bad.
I couldn’t understand mighty balls let alone, "'Twasnot my blame—who sped too slow—'Twas not his blame—who died While I was reaching him—But 'twas—the fact that He was dead."
I slipped on some sweats and read the poem I was handed. It was about a cat named Pat who didn’t want to be confused with a cow. And holy mighty eyeballs, it made me chuckle.
But did not make me more sophisticated.BLOG COMMENTS POWERED BY DISQUS