It’s Fall, my time of year. Time to layer! Like Superman changing into his cape and tights, I slip
that first ribbed turtleneck over my head and I’m transformed. I’m not anymore just a guy who
works out but eats like crap. I’m “The Big Guy.” Your gut looks like a muscle and the illusion is
safe until the spring thaw. It’s my annual autumnal right of passage. I put on the turtleneck and
promise that by April, my gut will be gone.
How can you beat a season that includes the World Series, the start of football season, Rosh Hashanah,
Yom Kippur, Halloween and Thanksgiving? My cup runneth over with pumpkin pie. Some Jews, during
Rosh Hashanah, symbolically cast away their sins by tossing bread crumbs into a lake. I honor football
and religion, by tossing away my sins in a nice tight spiral to a wide receiver on a down-and-out.
I’ve gotten so bad with my fascination with fall that I was driving in the Shenandoah Mountains of
Virginia last week and said, “this is a pretty ride.” And I was by myself! I said, “this is a pretty ride” to
myself. Out loud! I was afraid I was going to completely lose control and pull the car over to go
antiqueing. I don’t have the attention span to go antiqueing but I love the precedent that antiqueing has set.
You can add -ing to anything, and your activity seems, somehow, more dignified. I didn’t stop to go
antiqueing on my way back from the mountains, but I did do some cupcakeing during a good part of the
ride.
When I feel that first chill in the air, I immediately go into full-out emergency L.L. Bean mode. I look like
a Maple Syrup farmer. By January when I strip down from my hat, scarf, leather jacket, sweater, flannel
shirt, T-shirt, and boots, I shed layers like a 6’3” version of one of those Russian folk dolls that keeps
getting smaller and smaller as you open it.
This year I’m thinking about getting a pair of hunting breeches. I haven’t hunted in 13 years, and when I
did I wore jeans, but it’s good for a man’s soul to pull on a pair of breeches once in awhile. Beats putting
on a pair of soul-stealing Lycra bike shorts. Sometimes I wear bike shorts when I work out, UNDER
another pair of shorts. Can there be a worse look than the skinny hairy guy with his tank top tucked into
his bike shorts? “Want a spot?” “No. I’d rather the bar crush my chest than have you stand over me.”
Besides, nobody needs to know if you tend to the left or right but you and your gal.
I got to wear a tux at my friend Eutzie’s wedding last week. I love wearing a tux, but I couldn’t help but
feel like a bouncer at one of those expense account Gentleman’s Clubs. “The cover is 20 dollars
gentleman. Please don’t touch the ladies.” I admit, I’m all for strip joints, but they have ruined the cache of
slipping into eveningwear.
At least, wearing a tux at the titty bar door carries its own obvious cheezyness, so it’s not as bad as having
to wear an animal costume at work. That’s a sneakier journey into loserdom. There was a guy in a tiger
suit at the Exxon where I just got gas. I really felt for the guy. In a tiger costume, most people treat you
like a fool, and you’re not nearly as close to showbiz as you think you are. Years ago, I considered trying
out to be the Blue Hen at University of Delaware football games. Hmm. That’s a tough choice. I can dress
up like a chicken in front of people who actually care about beating Morgan State University-or-I can
tailgate with my friends and pretend to have a chance with the ladies. Hmm.
Tailgates. Another fall highlight! That’s a barbecue with a turtleneck.