I have an awful habit; A secret I’ve never actually kept hidden very well. It’s a disease, really.
I fucking love clothes.
My compulsive, obsessive nature has a stronghold over my life that is immeasurably detrimental to everything I do if I cannot manage it properly. Sure, it could be much worse and it could lead to felonious acts that would disallow me from seeing my son on a daily, monthly, or yearly basis, but I’m aware of it and own up to it wholeheartedly, so I’m able to keep it in check.
That still doesn’t help the effects it’s had on my relationships, causing strain and strife, and I can only gather that it could eventually cause the same issues once my son begins to understand more and more just how awful his father’s condition is—condition that I continuously feed into. I’m feeding into it right now just writing this, anticipating the freelance check coming through and what I'm going to immediately cop with it.
I am a good father. Not perfect by definition, but pretty fucking close. I love my son more than words can describe. He can do no wrong and he is better than your brother, sister, nephew, niece, son, and daughter combined. And I can tell he is already getting some of the best traits from his parents.
But I don’t want him to grow up like me. I don’t want him to care about clothes like his father does.
I can’t tell you when it all began, really. My parents cared about their appearance which was then passed onto me, but they merely had an ongoing tryst with fashion while I carry on a full-fledged stalk and prey, relationship-demolishing restraining-order habit that I continue to tell myself is symbiotic when, in actuality, it’s an empty, one-sided love affair. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I’m constantly thinking about it, because that's impossible, but I think it’s completely accurate to see that I am constantly aware of it. It’s like how guys may not be constantly thinking about sex, but they are aware of it from subtle cues and intimations that are impossible to avoid whether you are in a crowded room with no time to think or in an empty room with all the time in the world to reflect.
I'm constantly worrying that every little piece looks right when I want it to come off like I don’t care. I do care. A lot. Spending an exorbitant amount of time and effort plotting on my next purchase. Then trying to tell myself I need that piece which I’ll likely forget and move onto the next to plot and daydream, “How can I justify this cop to my wife?”
And justify it to myself. A lot of times I half-assedly do.
While I sit here and admit this, knowing I don’t have it fully under control and that there is a possibility it could get worse, I’m so far gone when it comes to dressing myself that I don’t really have any intention of leaving my insatiable need for it untamed. I don’t give a fuck and I know it. And the fact that I know this gives me every indication that I want my son to have little to no part of this trait.
1.
The only reason I leave any inkling of wonderment as to whether this appears in his DNA because I know what positives it can hold. My obsession has led me to meet some great people and do some great things. I am no expert in the field of fashion, nor am I saying I have any authority on anything because I look like a broke ass Drake/Chris Brown hybrid, but I consider myself a fairly well-put together dude who does it for nothing else except the sheer, unadulterated love for it.
Many people can say they are obsessed with their work, but not many people can say they are obsessed with what they work on. It’s led to a work ethic that has afforded me opportunities I might not have gotten had men’s fashion not been one of my life's pillars, as sad as that is to actually spell out. I mean, I can’t imagine being a scrub who unabashedly wears whatever the fuck their mom may or may not have picked up from a yard sale and carrying on with my life with no remorse. But god damn do I wonder what that happy-go-lucky type of way feels like. I mean, it isn’t really anything to stunt but it’s really everything and that fucking sucks.
A decent chunk of this world I’ve created is only gratified through heinous amounts of materialism and consumerism. Most likely caused by some deep seated self-esteem issues. Impurities I must live with.
But my child is pure.
Even when he’s picking his boogers and entertaining the thought of eating them right in front of me, he is without sin to me. So what frightens me is that even a bite-sized obsession with fashion could be ill-fated. He doesn’t need to be coerced by the evils of comparing the qualities and intangibles of labels. I’m sorry, Oliver, but the difference between Osh Kosh B’Gosh and Gap Kids isn’t worth a hissy fit, dude. Price tags shouldn’t just be a stepping stone to a higher ranking within some fantastical niche community that have little to no bearing on his real life. I don’t want you hanging out at Saint Laurent Paris with North West anyways because she will undoubtedly be with the shits and could you imagine Ye’s disgruntled protection over his daughter and her SLP?! And he should not have to wake up screaming in the middle of the night because he forgot to pick up his shirts from the dry-cleaner and he, like, really wanted to wear it the next day. Dog, do you know how fucking debilitating that is? Probably not. And I never want him to know, either.
2.
I do want him to care about his appearance, somewhat. He loves the sneakers we buy him, but not for the reasons I love mine. I do want him to have self-expression through what he wears. I want to teach him the values that go into the process of buying clothes: self control, knowing right from wrong, earning your keep, staying within your means, and not letting what’s on the outside define who you are on the inside.
But above all, I want him to be comfortable with himself every single day, no matter what. Throw on whatever you want, lil’ man because it’s your world. I want him to love him first. But I don’t want any of this to come at the expense of his expenses. Or his sanity. I don’t want him to live in a world within his psyche that allows him to think that everyone is constantly judging him based on his appearance, for better or for worse.
Unlike his father.
Nick Grant is a writer stunting in Des Moines, Iowa, which isn't hard to do. Follow him on Twitter here.
