Hospital Gowns, Hospital Frowns

Due to circumstances way beyond my control, I'm back in the hospital. Every prison sentencing hospital visit has a common thread: I never wear any hospital attire unless it is explicitly unavoidable. Nor will I ever, that is, unless Mademoiselle Coco Chanel rises from the grave to design an exclusive line of medical issue hospital gowns.

The doctors and nurses just don't get it. Sure, it convenient for them, but those gowns are ugly. I'm already depressed that I have to be here, inhaling the fumes of cleaning agents and pre-packaged medical supplies. I shouldn't be made to feel worse by having to spend my days in a cotton smock.

The dresses pictured above would make perfectly reasonable replacements. Stylish, but not constricting. Comfortable without looking like a slob. The oversized mohair sweater dress does have a burlap sack look to it, but I'm willing to overlook that if only for the fact that it's childlike cut is endearing. It doesn't just hang off the body, it envelops the body; like a grown-up security blanket. And in a place as uncertain as a hospital, it's nice to have that protection.

The white multi-layered shirt dress is pure fantasy. A fairytale piece. Soft, delicate. Everything you want to feel while waiting for test results. And look, there's snaps, which automatically make it utilitarian too!

**Street style photos courtesy of JAK AND JIL and STREETFSN

Winter Brights

As the leaves begin to fall, so begins the search for the perfect cold weather coat. And in Chicago, where the winter is eternal, a coat is mandatory. Hell, for Chicago winter a fully insulated, thermal body suit is mandatory, but I'll settle for a coat. Gray, black, and navy usually dominate this time of year. But with electric blues, lime greens, and bright oranges, this winter is all about color. It's as if the CFDA took a bribe from the Crayola corporation. Many designers took the Brighter is Better approach. At Burberry, a veritable rainbow of coats were sent down the runway, but Raf Simons designed the best of them all - a classic knee-length purple coat - for his own label.

 I never imagined I would want a purple coat, especially one that could potentially get me mistaken for Barney the Friendly Dinosaur, but the heart wants what the heart wants. The cut is so regal, so debonair; the definition of class. And the saturated, unconventional color choice makes it a refreshing take on a winter classic.

If The Shirt Fits

A plague has fallen upon the male gender. No, not male pattern baldness, but the arguably more serious inability to identify, purchase, and wear clothes that actually fit. Generations of males are subjected to ill-fitting clothes, completely unaware of their sartorial salvation. I honestly don't understand the fear. Do men believe a pair of pants that actually covers their ass will render them unattractive (or unattracted) to the opposite sex? Fitted clothes don't make you gay fellas. (That intimate kiss you shared with your "buddy" probably does, but "No homo", right?) If that were the case, then conversely, wearing baggy clothing would make you straight. And that just ain't true.

When I was younger, my mother bought my clothes. I remember she would always get size 34 pants, Large t-shirts, size 40 suit jackets. I eventually came to think these were my real measurements - a 12 year-old with the body proportions of Quasimodo.

I never questioned the clothing. Everyone seemed to dress the same way so I just assumed this was how boys dressed on their way to becoming men, but looking back on old photos, I didn't look more like a man. I looked more like a mess. My pants never fit me right. They would bunch awkwardly at the front, sliding further and further to the side as I moved. By the end of the day, my belt buckle was headed towards my hips. Thankfully, no one saw it, due to the tents I wore as t-shirts. My collars slouched sloppily to one side, making it impossible to layer properly, and the bottoms of button ups poofed out creating an extreme muffin top.

When I began to buy my own clothes, I found fashion and discovered that fitted pants didn't bring on the apocalypse. It seems ridiculous that even now tight clothes are considered feminine. Fitted clothes are considered too tight. I firmly believe men (and women) shouldn't wear clothes that are too tight. Thread and fabric can only stretch so far.

There's nothing like a man in clothes that fit. When worn properly, they can accentuate the curvature of his body in the most flattering way - perfectly wrapping around his arms, proudly accentuating his chest. In baggy clothes, you just look lost.

Tragically, there are tons of men out there who are still afflicted, cluelessly wondering the Men's Warehouses and Big & Tall stores of the world, wearing jackets that could shelter a small family. I can no longer allow this disease to ravage them. I encourage, no beg, the men of this world to wear clothes that actually fit. Know your actual measurements, not the ones your Mama gave you. Clothing is designed to flatter the body, not consume it.

Prescription Picc #002

Somewhere deep in the remote jungles of Africa lives is a tribe of Glamazons called Proenza Schouler. Instead of fighting with hand-crafted spears, they use high heels. They live in huts that bear a striking resemblance to Manhattan studio apartments. Tribe Proenza live on a diet of coffee beans (non fat) and their tribal makeup is washed off and reapplied every morning, not to mention retouched throughout the day.

Finding pendants that ward off evil spirits or increase fertility to be useless, the Proenza have created these necklaces to ensure a fruitful fashion week and to actually increase infertility. There's no way they would be able to squeeze into those one-of-a-kind grass skirts with baby weight.

From watching National Geographic, I've learned that spirituality is important to isolated tribes like this. While most are polytheistic, the Proenza pray to only one deity - the one they call Anna Wintour. They do not mingle with other tribes, but instead travel in cliques wearing the jewelry pictured above.

Luckily, you don't have to book a flight and rent a jeep to get a taste of their wares. Thanks to the information age, you can go on over to the Proenza Schouler online shop and place an order for either necklace. At a starting price of $450 each, I wish I could prescribe some kind of discount.

Fear not, H&M offers their slightly more nautical, greatly more affordable version (pictured below) for the Summer 2011 season:

  
I renamed this series Prescription Piccs after the PICC line I had painfully implanted (Seriously, I've never heard a doctor say "Oops, messed up. Just give me one more chance" before); which soon started to malfunction and was later removed. A PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) line is basically an implanted tube that runs under the skin, up the arm, and empties into the main vein of the heart. It's called a PICC. These pieces are picked. See the wordplay at work here?

Since [I've] Been Gone

I could make this post a fairytale, one complete with unicorns and fairy princesses and personified animals singing about honesty and sharing, but to do that would be a lie because that's not disease and that certainly is not any disease of mine.

A couple days after my last post, I went to see my doctor for a regular follow-up. In the examination room, he asked to look at my legs. Just before sitting on the table, I looked at my right foot where I could see a small pool of orange fluid had collected. My doctor didn't know what it was. Neither did I. My instinct was to blame the doctor for being a slob. I find his fresh-from-med-school-know-it-all attitude to be extremely off-putting, so I relish in the moments I can prove him wrong or unprofessional. That was before I felt my leg was wet and saw that the fluid was coming from a pinhole in my right knee.

He poked it. Of course, it hurt. He pressed around it, kneading my flesh like pizza dough, that hurt too. Words like "infection" and "hospital" were thrown around. Two of my least favorite words. Yet, they seem to follow me everywhere. The ultimate decision was a trip back to the plastic surgeon, whom I had left not thirty minutes before. She took one look at my leg, offered an authoritative nod and said "Oh, it's not infected. I just have to cut away some of the skin". Fair enough, I assumed. Open it up a little, slap a band-aid on that bitch, and send me on my merry way, but that would have been too easy. She cut through my skin, peeled layer after layer away and deposited them in a piece of bloodied gauze as if they served no purpose.

"What are you doing?"
 "Oh, this is just weak skin. You don't need this."

Weak or not, the skin is mine and because I am primarily composed of skin and bones, that tissue is essential to my makeup. When she finished, there was a gaping hole - one that, she explained, would have to be packed with gauze two times a day with different creams for morning and night. Like I said, I had been to see her earlier that day and she practically sung the praises of the progress my first wound (the wound on my thigh) was making. There was still a way to go, but the wound vac had done it's job and replaced my canyon with new tissue that was eager to heal. I felt like God finally threw me the bone I had been praying for. As with so many of these occasions, I was wrong. I was left with the hole in my thigh and the hole in my right knee. That makes two.

A week later I found another fluid bubble underneath the skin on my left leg. I had to undergo the same process again. Cut. Peel. Dump. I now have the hole in my thigh, the hole in my right knee, and the hole in my left knee. Three. Add to that, one on my right elbow, another near my wrist, and a fresh new one that could be mistaken for a lunar crater on my left arm. Six.

There should be a Sesame Street count-a-long for the amount of wounds I have on my body.

It's been seven years. The worst should be behind me, not around the corner. The most painful part is watching everyone else live my dreams; that hurts more than any physical pain could. They shamelessly whine about how their lives have been made unbearable by the boy that doesn't like them, or the date that went wrong, or because they had to change their Facebook password (true story).

I'm not ashamed to say that I would kill to have their problems.

What's worse is the state of arrested development I've been in since this all began. When it started I was 15 years-old and while all my friends were being fifteen and doing fifteen-like things, I was in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, watching the most basic form of cable available. The missed years kept piling on, as did missed opportunities and in some ways I feel like I'm still in my early teens, because I've yet to experience a youth.

I wish I could say that I always have a positive outlook on my situation, but that would defeat the purpose of this blog. I don't always have a smile on my face. My head isn't always held high. Sometimes, I have trouble standing tall. These last few months have been about learning to see past that, to continue in spite of the setbacks, which in all honesty, is a daily battle; a battle I intend to win one day.

I was thinking of getting something to commemorate my future triumph; something I could look to for encouragement. And so, I thought of the Giles & Brother Railroad Spike Cuff.

They do custom engraving and I want a word stamped on the cuff that ignites that fighting spirit. I thought of words like "persevere" and "survivor", but they all seemed too clinical, too heartless. Then I came up with "Invictus". Not Invictus as in the movie where Morgan Freeman plays Nelson Mandela, but Invictus as in the English poem that speaks to the state of mind I'm working towards; one of unshakable faith and courage. A more cost-effective method would be to write "invictus" on a Post-it or recite it to myself as I'm brushing my teeth, but there's something different about wearing it. In wearing it, the word becomes a shield or a tattoo. It becomes a part of me. When you're so far down, it's all too easy to forget to look up and this brass beauty could help prepare me for the victory ahead.

The Awkward Issue

 

The Details March 2011 issue has become The Awkward Issue in my house ever since it surfaced in the mailbox. My father nearly choked when he saw it and my mother is avoiding it like it's the Antichrist. It's become the pink elephant in the room. The pink elephant that I feed peanuts and bathe and take on walks so that it gets bigger and stronger. 

I love it. I love the tension it's creating. To me, it's just a magazine (a magazine with fine specimens of man meat that I would love to just tear into. I mean, I look at the cover and I think THIS is why I'm gay, but I digress). To them, it's homosexuality incarnate. 

I love that it's bringing the gay issue to the forefront. My dad is fine with my being gay, a little too fine sometimes. I think the magazine just confuses him. He doesn't know whether to acknowledge it or just pretend like it's nothing out of the ordinary, like it's a part of our home decor. I'd rather he just ignore it because acknowledgment would inevitably lead to questions like "So, which one's your favorite?" followed by "So he's the type you like?" and those aren't questions I'm prepared to answer for my father. Regardless of his comfort level, I could never bring myself to answer "The one standing on the left. Sean O'pry. I love his lips, his eyes, his arms, the vein in his arms, pretty much everything he has to offer". 

My mother, on the other hand, still clings to her delusions of grandeur. In conversation, she describes hypothetical situations where she meets my wife-to-be (my wife-to-be named Sean O'pry). She tends to dip in and out of reality and as a result her acceptance comes and goes. Just when I think she's ready to join PFLAG with statements like "You know, I'm really trying to except the gay thing" and "I want you to know I love you and that I just want you to be happy and for you to find a partner that makes you happy, she'll inevitably follow it up weeks later with "You need to learn how to treat a woman" or describing to me what women like in a man, which coincidentally is usually what I like in a man.

We could spend days dissecting my relationship with my parents, but frankly that's not what this post is about. Back to Details...

This issue marks the introduction of a new section entitled The Body, a thirteen page section on health and fitness, which I'm definitely against. I'm not against heath and fitness (entirely),  I just think such knowledge is better suited for a macho publication like Men's Health not Details, which is supposed to be a fashion magazine. And thirteen straight pages, that's a little excessive. I don't think they even devote thirteen straight pages to fashion. Unless by the word "body" they mean fold out posters of the cover model's bodies, I'm so not interested.

I haven't really read this issue yet. I have a stack of magazines to read through before I get to Details. Until then, please enjoy a behind the scenes video of the cover shoot (I know I did):

Sometimes, You Have to Cancel

I canceled my appointment yesterday. I just couldn't make it. Rheumatoid arthritis is extremely subject to the weather. I can tell whenever it's about to rain or snow because my joints get really stiff and achey. The slightest bit of precipitation can send me into a world of pain. Think Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. 

Yesterday in Chicago, the weather gods decided to gift us with rain. It may be good for the environment but horrible for my ability to get out of bed. I was scheduled to go to the University of Chicago medical center for an appointment with an infectious disease specialist, but when I woke up I felt the pain and canceled. 

I feel like a failure. This week was my medical marathon - a non-stop merry-go-round of doctor appointments everyday this week. I told myself that if I could do this I could do anything; that progress was being made and that I was one step closer to getting back to my chosen home, New York City. And I couldn't. I couldn't make it. I couldn't bear the pain of getting out of bed; of riding into the city; the dance routine of getting me into a wheelchair; trying to sit up in the waiting room; biding my time until I can get back to my bed; which of course does not come without my inching out the backseat, walking to the stairs supported by two people, and a climb up a flight of stairs that I imagine to be not unlike scaling Mount Everest. 

It probably would have been a good idea to see her because of the fevers I've been having. Every once in a while I'll have a fever of 99-100 and above, the highest ever being 102.3. I know that's not normal but I've been brushing them off because:

• they don't happen very often
• when they do, I don't feel sick. I don't even feel warm
• they always go away in a few hours
• I'm not too keen on waiting in the hospital for a team of doctors to do countless tests only to later tell me they have no idea what's going on

Fevers are usually a sign of infection, but I've got 16 viles of blood taken for tests that prove nothing is infected. An infection would also call for a constant fever, and mine are sparse. Knowing my luck, she would have had the solution to all my problems; finally, a doctor with the answers I've been waiting for or just answers period. But I missed that chance because I let the illness win, or at least that's how it looked yesterday. I may be acting a tad melodramatic considering I scheduled another appointment for March 23rd, but that wasn't my appointment. My appointment was for March 9th, but I couldn't make it. And now I have to wait in the unknown - a medical purgatory - until I can see her two weeks from now.

It frustrates me because deep down, medical history aside, I don't feel like a sick person and truth be told, on those good days, I forget that I am. For a nanosecond, I am normal. Then I reach for something or turn to the side and it all comes racing back to me, making up for lost time. It hurts more than any arthritis pain could, when your actions can't match your thoughts.

In my mind, I feel like I can go or at least that I should be able to. When I wasn't able to, I didn't take it as "You need to rest, now. You won't need to rest, forever", which I should have. I took it as "Go back to bed, Joï. You're not like everyone else. You can't do what everyone else can".

Maybe that's why yesterday was such a hard blow, because after a good week I had to admit to myself that there is still a great deal or work to be done. I'm not out of the woods yet.

I put too much weight on these appointments, on tiny insignificant events that have no bearing on my capacity to persevere. They are check-ins - mile markers on my way to recovery - and should be regarded as nothing more. What's done is done. I canceled the appointment, I didn't go, and now I have to move on. But what must be said so that I can grow to accept it, is that I canceled it for a legitimate reason, because my body needed to rest and I should not be ashamed of that. I did what was necessary to give me strength for today. The only thing I can do now is live my life until the 23rd (and after, of course) and hear what she has to say then. My Medical Marathon Week is over, for the most part. I wish I could have completed it as planned, but unfailingly, shit will happen. There's always some week in the not-so-distant future. Or the week after.

Oh, Thommy Boy

Images from Thom Browne Menswear A/W 2011

What Thom Browne is doing with traditional menswear design is truly remarkable. I dream a dream of owning a fleet of his suits in different styles - the peek-a-boo ankle, the short suit, and more recently the eighteenth century inspired garb shown at his Fall 2011 menswear show. I would be proud to wear any of his clothing to a business meeting. My professionalism may be brought into question, but my style would remain untouched.

With his more recent women's collections, now with two under his belt, I can't help but feel a little bit of jealousy. Thom Browne has always been a hidden secret, just for the boys - my compensation for having so many of my favorite designers lacking or not putting forth any effort at all in the menswear department (Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel can you hear me?). And now, one of our hidden treasures is headed to the other side. Straight men? Dainty feet? Must women get everything? So far his involvement with the other hasn't taken away his focus from the original menswear line. In fact, his lines boast a cohesion unseen by most designers that tackle both the men's and women's markets.

One of the best things about Mr. Browne is that he gives his customers options. You can be his runway vision dressed in leg-of-mutton sleeves or the jumper in gray mohair or you can scale it back and take pieces like the gray plaid overcoat for a fashion forward and sensible look. With that said, the gray jumper has my name on it. I'd pair it with a simple white button-up and a tie, maybe some brogues or saddle shoes, and run in front of a camera every chance I got because nothing says "Photograph me!" more than a 6'1'' man in a jumper.

As far as the women's line goes, you can definitely tell the hand that designed them. The shaping, proportion play, and jovial mix of plaids are Thom Browne staples yet they don't become stale when repurposed for the female form. Fashion needs more rounded skirts, especially in variations of plaid. I can't say that I understand Thome Browne's egg-shaped creations - Winter wear for the real life Russian Babushka doll - but, I can't take my eyes off of them either. I mean you kind of have to applaud the mind that comes up with that design idea. If only for its sheer brazenness.

Images from Thom Browne Womenswear A/W 2011

Good Week

It's been a good week and because it's been a good week I've constantly been looking over my shoulder for the other shoe to drop. I've been feeling more energetic, I've had less pain, and best of all I've been moving better. I still have to use a walker, but the whole idea of walking no longer makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and cry.

I saw my rheumatologist last Thursday, Dr. L. He wasn't too pleased at the progress I've been making. I could tell in the tone of his voice and the way he interacted with me - slightly frowning with skepticism all over his face. If I'm naturally getting better on my own that means that he had no part in my recovery and that he still doesn't know what's wrong with me or what medications to throw at me to "fix" the problem. Doctors don't like to be rendered useless.

My other doctor, Dr. K, his attending (who is older and more experienced), was much more sympathetic. I prefer him to treat me, but apparently choosing doctors is like choosing hair stylists - you just don't switch. Otherwise they get all pissy with each other. It's like a blood pact, once you choose, you choose for life. On countless occasions I've tried to make appointments to see just the attending, but somehow my other doctor always finds out and crashes the appointment. Now, after examining me on his own he brings in Dr. K, which I'm very grateful for.

In this last appointment Dr. K flat out admitted that they've tested for everything and can't find out exactly what's wrong with me. I wasn't mad, quite the opposite in fact. I was relieved and I admired him for his honesty. After eight years and cocky doctor after doctor, it's refreshing to find one that doesn't want to play God and can actually admit when he or she is wrong. I don't expect my doctor to have all the answers, but I do expect him to be honest. Of course, it would be nice to have a name for all of this medical drama instead of just calling it "my luck" or "my cross to bear", but I do appreciate his honesty.

My last doctor was very trendy. Very quick to (mis)diagnose and dismiss. I think my visits with her averaged around a maximum of 10-15 minutes. I guess this was her subtle way of telling me "Look, I have some shopping to do".  She once visited me in the hospital wearing metallic gold heels, which probably meant she spent more time at Saks than she did reviewing my medical records; so I can appreciate a sensible doctor.

I'm supposed to see neurology and infectious disease doctors that specialize in muscle autoimmune diseases next week. Let's hope this will be the first step in better understanding this monkey on my back.

P.S. Did I mention that next week I have appointments scheduled everyday Monday through Friday? I guess that's the other shoe.

Prescription Piece #001

All of my time spent in doctors offices and hospital rooms consolidated over the years would probably get me a quality medical degree, or at least one from WebMD. I should be a doctor, but no one wants a doctor that would rather be reading Vogue than their patient's medical records (and would openly admit it). So I bring to you, what I am licensed to prescribe in all 50 states....PRESCRIPTION PIECES - pieces to stop the pain and start the gain.

 

The perfect winter boots, no? I'm from Chicago so New York winters are like Tropical vacations to me. Growing up, the staple to every winter wardrobe was a sensible pair of winter boots. Now, this year I chose to go the practical route with some duck boots. I call them my lumberjack boots, bought to appease the slumbering lumberjack inside of me. They get the job done, but these beauties are definitely the better choice. If only they came in a tranny size 13. Think about it, a major part of staying healthy in the winter is staying warm, these boots look warm so they probably are and they have spiked soles to stomp those winter blues away. Just because the weather forces you to be practical, doesn't mean you have to give up what's pleasing to the eye. Unfortunately, they do not come in a tranny size 13 and yours truly is once again left envious, drooling over the artistry and craftsmanship that goes into women's shoemaking. They used to be on sale at SSENSE, but I guess too many people were effected by the allure of the Viktor & Rolf Ankle Wedge Bootie and they sold out. I beg of you, someone out there, find these so that I may live vicariously through you.

If you can't get your hands on this exact pair, try the nice spring alternate, Viktor & Rolf Leather Platform Heels (right). Perfect for getting through all that spring rain slip free. Or the other, less-cute-but-still-grasps-the-concept Viktor & Rolf Fur Lined Ankle Wedge (left).

They're doing wonderful things over there at Viktor and Rolf.

www.ssense.com
www.lagarconne.com

Count Backwards from 100

*The following post was written weeks ago in anticipation of this blog's launch. Although dated, I still feel it encapsulates all the anxieties of waiting to be put under for surgery, whether major or minor. 

January 20, 2011

I have surgery later today at 1pm. My nervousness comes in spurts, kind of like the hiccups. I know I am in capable, well-manicured hands with Dr. P, but it’s still surgery. SURGERY. In anticipation of the blessed event, I’ve casually mentioned to a few relatives and close friends that “I’m having surgery on the 20^th” just as if I were saying “No, I don’t really like butter on my toast” or “The weather man said it was going to be 32 degrees today”. They always marvel at my cavalier attitude, but when you’re well-versed in such medical matters nothing, not even a little surgery, can phase you – for the most part. There’s always that fear that the anesthesia will wear off and I’ll wake up during my surgery to find that I can’t move or speak, only feel the pain of the knife carving my flesh like in the episode of every medical television drama ever broadcast. Or that the surgeon’s will operate on the wrong appendage. Maybe I should take a sharpie to my right leg and write “Cut Here”. Every little bit helps.

I haven’t heard many specifics about Dr. P's surgical talents, just that she's supposed to be "really good". That's what everyone says about her, as though "she's really good" became her new last name once she graduated from medical school. "Over there? That's  Dr. P She's Really Good". I am a fan of her bedside manner though, or rather, just the way she handles me. I can tell she can tell I’m a human and not just a slab of meat with a pulse brought to soothe her experimental whims. Her calm demeanor causes me to think she’s a skilled professional. Of course she could be a complete sociopath with the shakes, but it's a little too late for reservations, the surgery is already scheduled. I trust Dr. P, I do. She wears sensible pantsuits with wide leg trousers and has long jet-black hair that she always keeps in a ponytail. She could sell some of it to supplement her income, if times got rough. But hell, she doesn't need to supplement her income. She's a plastic surgeon, times will never be rough. The entertainment industry and teenage girls with low self-esteem will keep her employed for a long long time.

I love to start sentences with “My plastic surgeon says”. It makes me feel like a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills, like I have confrontational dinner parties and carry an impossibly small dog. My plastic surgeon says this is a simple procedure.

For the record, I’m not going in to get my face lifted or my jowls sculpted or even that gender reassignment surgery I’ve been contemplating (kidding). When walking first became a problem, I had a muscle biopsy on my right leg done in October and because I take Prednisone and Imuran (two drugs designed to weaken my immune system and therefore quiet my buffet of autoimmune diseases), it hasn’t healed. The results of the biopsy were inconclusive, I might add. My rheumatologists called me to say they had no idea what was going on. The biopsy was for nothing. So I’ve just had this slowly degrading hole in my leg for the past 3 months.

Apparently, plastic surgeons like Dr. P have a better grasp on how and where to cut in order to promote optimum healing. The plan is to have her nip and tuck today so that I can spend the next 4 weeks attached to a wound vac, 24/7. The vac creates a negative pressure atmosphere where blood and other healing nutrients are literally pulled towards the surface. They work miracles. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s just different when it’s you.

The somewhat good news about all of this is that I am being admitted to the hospital for observation for a day and in the hospital they give you the good painkillers. The bad part is that I’ll be in worlds of pain and will actually need them.

My surgery is in a couple of hours. I really want to make sure this wound heals cute. I don't need any children pointing or screaming in horror at my leg, the Frankenstein of healed wounds. I already have my speech prepared:

Surgical Staff –

I needn’t remind you that spring and summer are upon us. In case you may have not noticed I have staggeringly long legs and, as such, like to show them off in the warmer months. Therefore, I would most appreciate it if you took careful consideration with your incisions so as to ensure that the wound heal in the most attractive of ways. I’m already eyeing a pair of lime green shorts from ASOS, and would hate to have to forgo their purchase because of a dirty reminder of days past.

Thank you very much.

*The good news is that in the weeks since I've had my surgery my leg has been healing very nicely. In less than a month it should be completely healed and I can get rid of this gurgling wound vac (it makes little fart noises). So I have that to be excited about. 

The Queer Eye

I was getting my haircut a few days ago and I mentioned to my hairdresser that I loved her hair and that part of the reason why I keep coming back is that she seems like she has so much control over it. She blushed, and as her scissors attacked my split ends she told me she loved it when gay men compliment her because “they’re such fashionistas”. She then went on to say, “that’s like the ultimate compliment, when a gay guy compliments you”. I wanted to tell her not to believe the hype, that she couldn’t be further from the truth, and that, put simply, most gay men are a hot ass mess. But I couldn’t. You don’t just tell a three year-old that Santa Claus doesn't exist. And if I ripped the lid off of that one for you I really do apologize.

At one point did society just assume that all gay men are fashionable? Sure, there are some, but not the entire gay population as a whole. Homosexuality does not a stylist make. Most of the gay men I know are horribly garish and though I love a good padded shoulder, sequin, and armful of gold jewelry, that's not what I believe fashion is about. To me, it’s about finding the right piece for the right moment, making a statement, creating a character, not strapping caution tape to your chest and calling yourself "fashion-forward". The myth breeds these ill-equipped gay men thinking “I can be a stylist” or “I can be a designer” and they are released into the world to wreak havoc and to perpetuate stereotypes that paint them as God’s gift to fashion.

I think women and society at large become blinded by the fact that most of these guys can list designer names without end. That doesn’t mean they know a lot about fashion, that just means they like to shop. Ask them about Elsa Schiaperelli, Madeleine Vionnet, Paco Rabanne, or Charles Frederick Worth and I’m sure they will nervously change the subject to how much they love your shade of nail polish.

There are gay men who are more than capable of offering style advice, but like anything else truly genuine and valuable, they are rare; rare, but not entirely impossible to find. They are the editors of publications, the designers with a fresh voice and the seasoned professionals, the gay men with restraint. They don’t even have to be famous. Trust them, not every Justin, Tristan, or Robbie in a tube top with a bow on their head. Otherwise you just end up looking loud. Not cute. Loud.

Unfortunately, there are women out there who require the assistance of a stylist. They just can’t dress themselves, there’s no getting around it. If you do need a gay man to dress you, find one in a controlled setting – the fashion section of a library or bookstore, an upscale department store – don’t go patrolling around just any gay club, waiting for last call so the drunken messes can be thrown into the street and later picked up by you.

You should want to look nice. You should attract compliments. And when dressing, a compliment is always better than a reaction.

New Year , New Blog

It is, in fact, a new year. And in the midst of all these revisions, revitalizations, and renewals, I find myself battling another re word – reevaluation, that is. In the New Year, I have been reevaluating my health situation – where I’ve been, where I am now, and what it will take to get me better – and I finally had to come to terms with the fact that my current methods just aren’t working. I have overlap syndrome, a series of autoimmune diseases that sort of build on each other. Most people have an immune system that works for them, mine works against me. And when even your own body is working against you, it is tough to put up a good fight. Rheumatoid arthritis, dermatomyositis, vasculitis, osteoporosis, pulmonary fibrosis and more recently, osteonecrosis, reads the laundry list of illnesses I have to spew whenever a medical professional asks me about my “medical conditions”.

For the past seven years I’ve avoided any discussion of my health as if complete denial was a cure. If I ignore it, it will go away. All these years of ignoring have taught me that the disease just gets louder. It screams, knocks down doors, and bursts windows until you eventually acknowledge it. Positively or negatively, it doesn’t matter, just as long as it knows that you know it’s there. And so, the New Year came and I decided no more hiding. No more going around corners, taking shortcuts, diverting the conversation. The only way to tackle this thing is head on.

Part of my problem is that I just don’t talk about my illness for fear of making people uncomfortable. I don’t want to be that person, the sick person that makes everyone miserable with talk of treatments and procedures and side effects. I want to be like everyone else, or at least masquerade as a face in the crowd. It has taken me this long to realize that this journey, my healing, is just that – my healing. It has nothing to do with anyone else or their interpretation of the situation. This is my reality. It is not my life, but it is my reality. In order to truly heal, I need to talk about it. I need to be able to say, “Today, everything is sore and I feel like shit.” I need to say, “I’m exhausted from the fighting”. I need to be able to cry, if anything just to let it out. When people ask me how I’m feeling or what I’ve been up to lately, I need to feel that I can be honest and not have anyone flee in horror.

I thought and thought and finally settled on a blog as my outlet. But I didn’t want it to just be about my illness because that’s not all that I am. I wanted it to incorporate my passions and how I use them to help me heal, because there truly is medicine in doing what you love.

What I love is fashion and though I fancy myself a pretty talented writer, even I cannot articulate how I feel about the craft. The romance, the beauty, the emotion it stirs within me is unmatched. I love the culture and history of fashion and yes, even the characters it creates. I love that I can become anyone I want to be, go anywhere I need to go, all with the help of some fabric and a few embellishments here and there.

I can’t really walk right now, but I have hobbled my way to the magazine section of Barnes & Noble to buy British Vogue, Vogue Italia, V Man, and GQ Style on more than one occasion. I could barely stand in line to purchase them, literally suffering for fashion, leaning on nearby displays to support myself. It was as if the pain and the light-headedness didn’t matter; nothing did because in a few short minutes I would be leaving with fashion in my hands and would be one step closer to being transported to an alternate universe where my life is about observing and interacting with beauty and I’m not sick. The truth is that I am sick, but that doesn’t mean I should stop loving fashion and give up participating in this world. Even though it may be a while before the only bag I carry isn’t filled with IV fluid, I can still incorporate fashion into my life and let it help me to help myself heal.

So that brings me here, to this blog, where I plan to document this journey that I have been chosen to go on. It is daunting and no doubt exhausting, but through it I have humor, fashion, wisdom, and a love of the arts as my weapons. It is my sincere hope that someone out there battling disease will find my little piece of cyberspace, read my stories, connect, and ultimately leave with a little more hope. Even if you are one of the lucky ones blessed with a clean bill of health, I certainly hope that I can offer you something as well – a good laugh at the very least.