The Gaying Up of Andy
Apr. 4th, 2006 10:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolI keep trying to say 'my new girlfriend Bonnie', but she's not a new girlfriend anymore. Bonnie and I have been going out for six months or so. We have gone on trips and shared expenses and scrubbed each other's toilets. She has wrangled my children, and I have chased down her escaping dogs, and all six of us have watched movies on the couch. There's nothing new or awkward about this relationship anymore, so I need to retool my brain for just calling her 'my girlfriend Bonnie'. Or, better yet, just call her 'Bonnie', because I never stop yapping about her, so everybody knows she's my girlfriend already anyway.
So, my girlfriend Bonnie is different from me in many ways. One way is that she is very style- and appearance-conscious. She has many clothes and shoes and accessories. She is very particular about makeup and hair and nails, and maintaining these things requires an expenditure of time and money. She thinks about what she's wearing, and why, and how. She always looks very put-together and fashionable.
In this sense, I am the anti-Bonnie. I'm sorry, but I'm a slob. I hate to shop for clothes, or get a haircut, or even shave. I wear stained shirts and worn ties and underwear with holes in them. My shoes look like they have been left out in the rain. I've had the same hairstyle since I was 8 years old.
This disparity between Bonnie and I has caused some discomfort on both sides. For my part, I hate looking so shabby next to my girlfriend. For Bonnie, a boyfriend is basically another kind of accessory anyway, so having a slovenly boyfriend is a non-starter. Both of us are professionals and it's good for one's career to have a presentable significant other, so we're both interested in being able to be seen in public in a way that doesn't embarrass either of us. Some cleaning up of the Andy is required.
So, Bonnie is doing her level best to gay me up. There really isn't a better way to put it. If one were to compare before and after photos of me, pre- and post-Bonnie, your average Joe on the street would conclude that Bonnie has helped me come out of the closet. This would be an inaccurate conclusion -- without being indiscreet, I'm pleased to report that now more than ever I like girls in general and Bonnie in particular -- but appearance is everything. I'm now occupying the role of Andy Solberg, the Big Gay Engineer.
Take, for example, hair. For the longest time my hair has remained unchanged -- generally short, parted on the left, easy and dull. This weekend Bonnie finally talked me into making a change. It's now longer on the top, swept back, and artfully mussed. Worst, a certain amount of product is required to hold it in place. I had planned on using a gel or mousse, but Bonnie maneuvered me into using (wince) a pomade. That's right, I'll take a jar of Dapper Dan pomade and a stack of hairnets. I will say, it looks generally neater than my old do, and I haven't gotten any negative comments so far, but I feel generally slicked-back and ratlike. I feel like I should be leaving a horse head in somebody's bed.
Since meeting Bonnie, my wardrobe has expanded considerably. I used to have maybe six dress shirts, quite a few of which were stained or threadbare, spanning a rainbow of color from white to blue and no hues in between. My pants situation was even worse. Bonnie regularly takes me shopping for clothes now, or just removes the annoying middleman and buys me stuff when I'm not around. She genuinely loves to shop -- to look at different products and compare quality, to hunt for deals, or just to try on new things for the sheer pleasure of it. This is of course completely unnatural and should be shunned by honest, store-hating folk such as myself. Bonnie, it seems, is well-versed in a palette of colors somewhat wider than the two or three with which I am familiar, and so I now have shirts that are yellow and magenta and certain other tones that don't appear in nature and never will, presuming a just and merciful God. Bonnie has done very nicely getting me especially gay-looking sweaters. I now own a very bright red turtleneck, with a Polo logo on it no less, and I brave the scorn of my fellow men where I wear this thing. It is a beautiful sweater, and I probably look very nice in it, but it is a sweater that sends a clear message, and that message is: ladies, you have nothing to fear from me and my thumb-sized penis.
Bonnie has also introduced me to something she calls 'dry cleaning'. Apparently what happens is this: when you have nice clothes, you aren't supposed to just throw them in the washing machine along with everything else (who knew?) Instead, you're supposed to bundle up a week's worth of dress clothes and take them to the nice man in the turban, who smiles and gives you a ticket. In a few days' time you return, give the nice man in the turban all of your cash, and he lets you take back your fancy clothes. Magically, the clothes are pressed and nice-smelling and that chocolate stain has mysteriously disappeared. This is all copacetic, but you have to be careful because that sneaky turbaned devil has stapled a ticket to the inside of your pants, and if you don't remember to remove it, it will scratch your inner thigh and the dry-cleaning terrorists will have already won. Dry cleaning is expensive, but it's probably helping my appearance to not be wearing things that look like they have been balled up in the trunk of a '72 Camero that has been submerged in Lake Livingston for the last five years.
I have a long way to go before I am completely gayified. The shoes, for instance, are a nagging problem. Bonnie helped me pick out some very nice, sturdy dress shoes a few months back. I wore them every day to work, exposing them to the harsh environments of basements, steam tunnels and muddy fields. Today they look like they have been sandblasted. Bonnie is not happy about this. She wants me to have workboots for that sort of business, and wear nice shoes for nice-shoe business, and never the twain shall meet. That's far too sensible for me to be able to sign off on such a plan. I don't think I get a say in the matter, though. Bonnie's very nice, but it's unwise to cross her.
Just you wait. In a matter of weeks I'll have blonde highlights and a bottled tan, and I'll be smearing a cream made from goat testes on my hands to keep my skin supple. I'll be going for manicures and pedicures, and I'll be having my back hair meticulously tweezed out by giggling ladies from the Mekong Delta. I'll have to join a gym, but it'll be a gym with no boxing ring and plentiful potted ferns. My transformation will be complete; I really will be Andy Solberg, the Big Gay Engineer. What's that, he has two kids and a hot girlfriend? Screw that; that guy's wearing poofter sweaters!
Oh well. Maybe I could compensate with a muscle car or something.
So, my girlfriend Bonnie is different from me in many ways. One way is that she is very style- and appearance-conscious. She has many clothes and shoes and accessories. She is very particular about makeup and hair and nails, and maintaining these things requires an expenditure of time and money. She thinks about what she's wearing, and why, and how. She always looks very put-together and fashionable.
In this sense, I am the anti-Bonnie. I'm sorry, but I'm a slob. I hate to shop for clothes, or get a haircut, or even shave. I wear stained shirts and worn ties and underwear with holes in them. My shoes look like they have been left out in the rain. I've had the same hairstyle since I was 8 years old.
This disparity between Bonnie and I has caused some discomfort on both sides. For my part, I hate looking so shabby next to my girlfriend. For Bonnie, a boyfriend is basically another kind of accessory anyway, so having a slovenly boyfriend is a non-starter. Both of us are professionals and it's good for one's career to have a presentable significant other, so we're both interested in being able to be seen in public in a way that doesn't embarrass either of us. Some cleaning up of the Andy is required.
So, Bonnie is doing her level best to gay me up. There really isn't a better way to put it. If one were to compare before and after photos of me, pre- and post-Bonnie, your average Joe on the street would conclude that Bonnie has helped me come out of the closet. This would be an inaccurate conclusion -- without being indiscreet, I'm pleased to report that now more than ever I like girls in general and Bonnie in particular -- but appearance is everything. I'm now occupying the role of Andy Solberg, the Big Gay Engineer.
Take, for example, hair. For the longest time my hair has remained unchanged -- generally short, parted on the left, easy and dull. This weekend Bonnie finally talked me into making a change. It's now longer on the top, swept back, and artfully mussed. Worst, a certain amount of product is required to hold it in place. I had planned on using a gel or mousse, but Bonnie maneuvered me into using (wince) a pomade. That's right, I'll take a jar of Dapper Dan pomade and a stack of hairnets. I will say, it looks generally neater than my old do, and I haven't gotten any negative comments so far, but I feel generally slicked-back and ratlike. I feel like I should be leaving a horse head in somebody's bed.
Since meeting Bonnie, my wardrobe has expanded considerably. I used to have maybe six dress shirts, quite a few of which were stained or threadbare, spanning a rainbow of color from white to blue and no hues in between. My pants situation was even worse. Bonnie regularly takes me shopping for clothes now, or just removes the annoying middleman and buys me stuff when I'm not around. She genuinely loves to shop -- to look at different products and compare quality, to hunt for deals, or just to try on new things for the sheer pleasure of it. This is of course completely unnatural and should be shunned by honest, store-hating folk such as myself. Bonnie, it seems, is well-versed in a palette of colors somewhat wider than the two or three with which I am familiar, and so I now have shirts that are yellow and magenta and certain other tones that don't appear in nature and never will, presuming a just and merciful God. Bonnie has done very nicely getting me especially gay-looking sweaters. I now own a very bright red turtleneck, with a Polo logo on it no less, and I brave the scorn of my fellow men where I wear this thing. It is a beautiful sweater, and I probably look very nice in it, but it is a sweater that sends a clear message, and that message is: ladies, you have nothing to fear from me and my thumb-sized penis.
Bonnie has also introduced me to something she calls 'dry cleaning'. Apparently what happens is this: when you have nice clothes, you aren't supposed to just throw them in the washing machine along with everything else (who knew?) Instead, you're supposed to bundle up a week's worth of dress clothes and take them to the nice man in the turban, who smiles and gives you a ticket. In a few days' time you return, give the nice man in the turban all of your cash, and he lets you take back your fancy clothes. Magically, the clothes are pressed and nice-smelling and that chocolate stain has mysteriously disappeared. This is all copacetic, but you have to be careful because that sneaky turbaned devil has stapled a ticket to the inside of your pants, and if you don't remember to remove it, it will scratch your inner thigh and the dry-cleaning terrorists will have already won. Dry cleaning is expensive, but it's probably helping my appearance to not be wearing things that look like they have been balled up in the trunk of a '72 Camero that has been submerged in Lake Livingston for the last five years.
I have a long way to go before I am completely gayified. The shoes, for instance, are a nagging problem. Bonnie helped me pick out some very nice, sturdy dress shoes a few months back. I wore them every day to work, exposing them to the harsh environments of basements, steam tunnels and muddy fields. Today they look like they have been sandblasted. Bonnie is not happy about this. She wants me to have workboots for that sort of business, and wear nice shoes for nice-shoe business, and never the twain shall meet. That's far too sensible for me to be able to sign off on such a plan. I don't think I get a say in the matter, though. Bonnie's very nice, but it's unwise to cross her.
Just you wait. In a matter of weeks I'll have blonde highlights and a bottled tan, and I'll be smearing a cream made from goat testes on my hands to keep my skin supple. I'll be going for manicures and pedicures, and I'll be having my back hair meticulously tweezed out by giggling ladies from the Mekong Delta. I'll have to join a gym, but it'll be a gym with no boxing ring and plentiful potted ferns. My transformation will be complete; I really will be Andy Solberg, the Big Gay Engineer. What's that, he has two kids and a hot girlfriend? Screw that; that guy's wearing poofter sweaters!
Oh well. Maybe I could compensate with a muscle car or something.
