There's Something Wrong

In one of my recent posts, I alluded to the shock that almost overcame me when I heard my son mention that he'd lost his ear-ring.



I know my cultural and "normal" expectations were fixed in the 50s-60s, when I was but a lad, but I heard something today which actually sent a shiver down my spine.

My son was planning on going into Wellington to attend a friend's 21st Birthday Party, and he was intending to go dressed fairly smartly.  He had a lovely old Tweed Jacket we'd bought him in Scotland 3 years ago (it was a modern design, and had a smooth refined texture, not like my own beloved hairy jacket), and he was discussing the merits of his trouser selection with my Beloved (My wife, life-partner and soul mate, not my Harris Tweed Jacket).

Now I'm a broad-minded chap as everyone knows, but there is something dreadfully wrong about a 25 year old bloke discussing his choice of apparel with his Mum. When I was his age, style wasn't really a big thing.  Jeans, Paisley pattern shirts (and co-ordinating ties), Chelsea boots were all you needed.  The only major point of discussion was the amount of flare allowed in the Jeans, and discussing that sort of thing with my Mum just didn't appear in my world-view.

Stylish

But the current generation are certainly different, and they spend lots of bucks on hair care products, moisturisers, aftershaves which smell awfully like perfumes, special razors which are actually designed to give you a bad shave and leave a 48 hour stubble.  My generation always had neat haircuts (short back and sides, no other option could be contemplated), we shaved our faces smooth, and shunned the aromatic delights of a stinging application of aftershave and relied instead on a styptic pencil to staunch the blood flow.  To be fair, "Old Spice" aftershave was just coming onto the market, and I got a bottle for a Christmas present. Très sophistiqués n'est ce pas?

However what shocked me was my Son's next question to his Mum.
"Mum?" he said, in that curiously whiny way most kids use when they want something, usually a favour or money.
"Mum?" "Can I borrow some of your clothes?"

Dear God!
What has the world come to when young men exchange clothes with their own mothers.

I listened closely for the response.

"Do you want my trousers?" My Beloved replied.

Trousers?  What the f*ck was going on?

My Beloved disappeared to our bedroom and returned with a pair of black trousers, but cut (even I could see they were different from my sort of trousers) oddly.

It was only when she held them up to his waist (to check the length i suppose) that I could see that they were what I would describe as Japanese trousers, of the style made world famous by the Japanese Imperial Army in WWII.  Baggy at the waist and abdomen, but very tight around the lower calves and ankles.

We won dammit. Now get those trousers off.

Dear God!

Who had won the bloody war?
Why did my Beloved have a pair of Men's trousers in her wardrobe?
Whose trousers were they?

I breathed an initial sigh of relief when I discovered that these trousers were unisex, and could be worn by both genders, then I grew agitated again.

Unisex?
The world is crumbling.  Morals are disappearing faster than a glass of ice cold beer in an outback pub.  Differentiation is Dead.  Dead like the soul of a Frenchman after their defeat at the hands of the All Blacks at the Rugby World Cup.

Whatever happened to sturdy corduroy trousers held up by strong braces? (suspenders to any lovely denizens of the USA reading this).

Dear God!

Suspenders are safe

What happened to braces?  A man could be confident wearing braces, knowing with absolute assurance that his nether regions would not be suddenly exposed due to a failure of a flimsy belt.

I am of the opinion that it is the absence of braces in Western society that has reduced Man's confidence to such low levels, and had brought about unisex clothing, Female Liberation and the Global Financial Crisis.

Wear braces and save the World.


PS.  My son in the end didn't wear his Mum's trousers, but went instead with another option.  I don't know which option he finally chose, because by this time I was well into my second glass of Laphroig and fumbling in the back of my wardrobe to see if I could find my pair of emergency braces.

Ah, found them.