Is it ever too late to reinvent yourself? Like week-old bread or the pair of unwashed socks that fall behind the back of the couch and are discovered only upon moving out, I have become stale. It’s time to jazz things up a little. By ‘jazz things up’ I don’t mean speaking in an odd time signature before undertaking a twelve-minute solo that sends people to sleep, growing a goatee whilst wearing a black skivvy or even donning a beret indoors, but some mild kind of metamorphosis that makes life a little more interesting. They options are many and varied. I could always try and alter my physical appearance; lose a little weight, perhaps even up the exercise quotient in the faint hope that my t-shirts will soon struggle to contain bulging muscles rather than wobble like a plate full of trifle. But all that sounds like a lot of effort. There must be a simpler option.
Is it ever too late to reinvent yourself? Like week-old bread or the pair of unwashed socks that fall behind the back of the couch and are discovered only upon moving out, I have become stale. It’s time to jazz things up a little. By ‘jazz things up’ I don’t mean speaking in an odd time signature before undertaking a twelve-minute solo that sends people to sleep, growing a goatee whilst wearing a black skivvy or even donning a beret indoors, but some mild kind of metamorphosis that makes life a little more interesting. They options are many and varied. I could always try and alter my physical appearance; lose a little weight, perhaps even up the exercise quotient in the faint hope that my t-shirts will soon struggle to contain bulging muscles rather than wobble like a plate full of trifle. But all that sounds like a lot of effort. There must be a simpler option.
Maybe some type of catchphrase would help. It works a treat on television sitcoms; there’s no reason it wouldn’t do the same in real life. But which catchphrase should I claim as my own? I can’t imagine myself telling another person to ‘Sit on it, bucko’. The circumstances in which I might reasonably ask ‘Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?’ without exposing myself to substantial ridicule are, by any measure, limited. The time for ‘aye currumba’ has, sadly, been and gone. ‘Book ‘em Danno’ would be flat-out confusing. Stealing someone else’s catchphrase is a tricky business. They generally belong to an individual and either sound disingenuous or hopelessly out of date when found in the mouths of others. It will have to be something else.
It’s often said that clothes maketh the man. Given that I, as I’m writing this, am wearing tracksuit pants and a t-shirt bearing the slogan, ‘I do all my own stunts’, I can only hope that this is wrong. Clothing aside, what really maketh a man memorable is his jewellery. In high school, I owned a silver chain. Presumably I was hoping to ward off vampires when I should have chosen something that repelled mosquitoes instead. The man-chain is a distinct look that deserves further consideration. When a man wears a necklace, more often than not, a couple of buttons are sacrificed in order to ensure the full magnificence of the work is on display. Perhaps it’s time to give up on neckties and pursue the man-chain? After a moment’s thought, I suspect I speak for everyone when I say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’. I like to keep my buttons securely fastened. Those who like to take it down a notch and treat their chest like a display pillow for precious metals are, frankly, far too bohemian for my tastes.
Of course, there are other options – it doesn’t have to be a necklace. Piercings are always a popular option. I had my ears pierced at the end of high school and it would be a shame to puncture them all over again as I feel they’ve only recently ceased to be infected. As for other piercings – nose, eyebrow or other parts too far-flung and uncomfortable to mention – they don’t say ‘reinvention’ so much as they scream ‘middle-age crisis’. Besides, what if I pierce something only to have it deflate like a leaky lilo?
There’s something I’ve never been game to try. It doesn’t involve putting on a costume or violating your physical integrity but it just might be the pathway to reinvention. Winking. I’ve long held a fascination for those who feel so confident with their place in the world that they’ll wink at another person while speaking to them. Whenever it happens, my first instinct is to question whether, in fact, I just imagined it. That’s the thing about winking at others – it’s so audacious that it makes the other person question their very sanity. You never see a wink coming. That’s because there’s never an appropriate time to let one fly. It simply comes out of nowhere and leaves you feeling as though everything you know is wrong.
Truth be told, I’ve never really had the right amount of confidence. There’s always the risk of misjudging. If you wink at someone and they ask you whether there’s something in your eye, you know you’ve made a complete hash of it. Or they think you’re lying; that whatever you’ve just said is an utter falsehood, all because you closed one eye and not the other. Worse still is the possibility that you might come across as kind of creepy and rather than drawing others into your confidence you have, in fact, repelled them as surely as a can of Mortein.
I’ve decided. There will be no winking. Reinvention can’t be forced, it must occur naturally. Unless, of course, you’re Madonna which, for the most part, I am not. Besides, winking is not much use to those who write. There’s something about it that fails to translate to the page. Winking may be fine for some, but for me the risks are simply too great. Pretending to be a winker would be to defy my natural instincts. Nor do I intend to get a bunch of piercings that make my eyes water before ripping the top two buttons off every single one of my shirts and adopting the man-chain. Just because you can reinvent yourself doesn’t mean you should. Inertia has its upside. There’s something to be said for staying right…where…you…are.