Fashion Forewarned
By David Whalen
They say a man should always dress for the job he wants. I think this explains why I wore a shark costume for most of my preschool years. The “costume” was more swimming goggles with an industrial-grade forever-rubber dorsal fin and matching webbed gloves that may or may not have increased my speed in the pool tenfold. Outside the aquatic ecosystem, where it was more commonly worn, I believed this half-boy, half-shark offered a more ferocious identity to all the adults in my life calling me “Baby David.”
This shark phase was one of many crises of identity in my adolescence. I also was frequently a knight in matte plastic armor, a soldier in military fatigue and, when I got into breakdancing, a “gangster” (Mom didn't like the bad-itude that came with that one). But I'm certain the capes, camo, and striped Adidas track suits lent themselves to my future employment as a college grad still working desk shifts at a local climbing gym.
I needed a uniform, my older brothers had them. Whether it was the baseball jersey (especially the ¾ shirts during practice) or the classic khaki-polo combo at the local private christian school, I saw them with place and purpose and they looked good with it too.
I waited, probably not patiently but I can’t recall, and when it was my turn up to bat, tragically my parents wouldn’t let me join a Little League team or enroll in private school.
In retrospect, their reasoning was more than fair. Watching 10-year-olds “play” baseball absolutely sucks, and private school for five boys is quite the financial strain, especially during the recession of ‘08. But was I able to rationalize this as a youth who wanted nothing more than to belong to a group larger than himself in stylish assimilation?
It would take years to get over this betrayal.
The scars started to fade and the freedoms introduced by the public school dress code started opening my sixth sense: fashion. I hung up my cape and would spend the last few hours of my night planning out my outfits with two standard decrees.
Socks and knees are never to be seen.
“Skinny jeans on and my kicks so clean.”
I'm not sure who taught me the former, but at far too young an age I learned the vile ugliness of a quarter inch of snow white fabric around the ankles. And knees? Gross. John Cena showed me that jean shorts are always cool but they need to border on capris.
As for the latter, I was swept away in mainstream “fashion” around the 5th grade. We were a frugal family. Running off of hand-me-downs, there was overstock of the baggy brand South Pole, whose reign had come to an end since my oldest brother graduated, which ushered in an era of “the tighter the better.” Fortunately for me, my 6th grade growth spurt left all my denim uncomfortably tight. The downside was that the length didn't change with my elongating femurs, so I had to partake in the vilified phenomenon of “sagging,” lest my ankles show (a carnal sin).
This awkward, uncomfortable conformity topped with cringey graphic tees of beloved cartoon characters carried through most of middle school, until the Mall Rat phase began amongst peers and I discovered Hot Topic and all their Slipknot and A Day To Remember tees to truly tell my tale of angst. In opposition to Hollister and their topless male models, I wore only black and beanies daily in spite of the Florida heat. My own act of rebellion against society and the forces of nature and common sense.
I'm unsure if the frugality of hand-me-downs left its mark, or if I had to start buying my own back to school wardrobe, but besides band tees from shows, I stopped updating until the 10th grade which, coincidentally, was when I started smoking pot and rock climbing.
Instead of following trends, the idea became a deconstruction of my appearance and therefore social norms, with more than just a pinch of signaling that I was doing so. In practice, that meant that shoes no longer served me functionally or aesthetically, and I needed more flowy pants to match my growing man-bun. At the time, my bloodshot eyes couldn’t see the irony in purchasing a tie dye shirt from H&M.
The bare feet helped me stand out through my freshman year of college, and as my hair grew, so did my tolerance for substances and my social circle. I was a pseudo hippy—with no real strides towards enlightenment—that couldn't stop talking about rock climbing. I spent that summer raft guiding two states away on the Big Pigeon River in the Great Smoky Mountains. As a vegetarian who didn’t like vegetables, I had a poor diet, worse hygiene, and a pension for inebriation. My tattered high school tie dyes were an honest reflection of my current state, a genuine display that reeked of obliviousness.
The rafting company I worked for had given me a uniform, a tacky t-shirt, PFD, and dorky helmet, but after being found passed out in a bathroom stall in that exact uniform, I had disgraced it. Maybe I didn’t want it, maybe I didn’t deserve it, it's kind of a blur.
This hazy summer ended with me almost, but not, getting fired (I was told, however, that I wouldn’t be needed again next summer) and an unpleasant ending to a relationship that brought me to Tennessee for the foreseeable future. Florida was overrated, and it was an opportunity to reinvent myself yet again, albeit a little forced.
I hadn't bought any new clothes yet, but I was making a place for myself in my new town. I rediscovered use for shoes, showers and undergarments. Quickly I found comfort in the climbing community. Comfort from the company of like-minded people, who emphasized health and awareness (self-awareness was the goal, but I'd settle for spacial-awareness to begin), and comfort from the clothes they wore.
The emphasis was on mobility and fit, something I think I needed more than uniformity. Simple garments, looser tops, stretchier pants, sandals or skate shoes, and those 5-panel hats were staples of the style. As I began to grow within my new group, I found avenues for my own flair. Athletic hoodies (especially with thumb holes) tank tops underneath for when it's Go-Time and bright colored leggings for when it's really Go-Time. I'm not one for labels, but it’s somewhere between 80s aerobics and Y2K Euro Punk. Top it off with a mohawk and septum ring, I was by no means as intimidating as I was with shark goggles, but I still gave the fine Southern folks in convenience stores something to think about.
I’d like to think my twists on the otherwise utilitarian-centric clothing of the great outdoor industry gained me the stylistic seal of approval from my peers, which means a lot to me. I don't want a uniform anymore, otherwise I’d have joined the military a long time ago. Now, I’d like to stick out, but from the safety of a group.
David Whalen is an aspiring writer with a crippling rock climbing addiction. Based in Chattanooga, Tennessee he spends any and all free time outside in search of stories and inspiration.
