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.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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?
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
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...
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):
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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
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".
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
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| 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.
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| Images from Thom Browne Womenswear A/W 2011 |
Friday, March 4, 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.
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.
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