The white flag is raised when the fanny pack seat belt is clicked. The flip flops are bad enough, but then they eventualy morph into Birkenstocks, with or without socks, and often show off a terrible sock tan. The outright surrender continues with the butt huggers that would make Daisy Duke proud. If pants are worn, they are clearly high waters with a tucked-in shirt.
Nothing, says Kanye West, makes a bad hip like a fanny pack.
A recent trip to a school festival led me to come into contact with many members of this species; that is, The Man Who Doesn't Care Anymore. It is to me a sign of capitulation when the belly falls over the belt, the sneakers become a shoe or sandal without laces and with velcro, and when style gives in to substance.
Maturity, maybe? A maturity that leads one to eschew the trappings of narcissism?
Perhaps. But maybe these men should not be seen as ome sort of heroes of Zen simplicity. As I see the man in a faded yellow tank top and crusty purple sweatpants approach, my gaze fixes on the vanilla ice cream sundae in his hand, cherries, caramel sauce, and crushed Oreo cookies.
Sometimes, I think, surrender is pretty sweet.