Preppy and I are in The Gap with my cousin Nelson, helping him pick out clothing that actually fits. Nelson, like many of the other straight guys I know, tends to wear shirts and pants three sizes larger than he needs. Somehow wearing your proper waist measurement has been associated with being Metrosexual, which I just don’t get at all. Nelson used to be a cross-country runner. Despite his habit of eating an entire large pizza for dinner several times a week, Nelson weighs about twenty pounds soaking wet. He has the metabolism of a hummingbird. We hate him for this.
But some of the women in his life have told him the same thing I’ve been saying for years: He looks like he was either recently hospitalized, or doesn’t know how to dress himself. I say it, nothing happens. A chick says it, and we’re on our way to the mall. Go figure.
“Go try this on,” says Preppy, holding up a knit shirt.
“I’m not wearing purple,” says Nelson.
“It’s not purple,” I say. “It’s… Merlot.”
“That just made it gayer,” he says.
We manage to wrangle him into a dressing room with a few selections, then stand outside the door so he can’t escape. A woman with a very bewildered expression emerges nearby, wearing a little white summer dress with a flouncy skirt.
“Aw, that’s pretty,” I say.
“Is it?” she says, her desperation leaking from every pore. “I don’t know anything about this style. Is this cute? My hips are too big for this. I feel like a dust mop.”
“No, darlin’, it’s great!” says Preppy, and he’s off assisting her.
Then another woman is at my side, brandishing a pair of madras shorts.
“Excuse me,” she says. “What shirt would go with these other than white? My husband always gets stains on white shirts.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t work here.”
“I know,” she says. “I just wanted your opinion.”
Welcome to Queer Eye for the Straight Gap.
I’m always hyper-aware of scenarios like this. I can’t begin to count the number of baby showers, bridal parties, or lingerie shopping excursions I’ve been asked to attend over the years. At least once a month Preppy calls to say he’ll be home late because one of his girlfriends needs help picking out a dress or cute pair of shoes. For my friend Katie’s wedding a few years back, I did the makeup for the entire bridal party.
I am not a trained professional, and frankly there’s nothing about my wardrobe that indicates I have an excess of taste to share with the world. When someone hands me a bouquet of flowers and says, “Do something with these,” my only instinct is to throw them away. Somehow, somewhere, a list was compiled of traits everyone assumes you have if you’re a guy who likes to kiss other guys. It’s this damn chicken/egg scenario I don’t have a clear grasp on: Did I have a natural instinct about what shade of lipstick looks best with which skin tone, or is this something I cultivated because everyone kept asking my opinion on the subject.
Is this the by-product of integrating into the culture?
“Go try this on,” says Preppy, holding up a knit shirt.
“I’m not wearing purple,” says Nelson.
“It’s not purple,” I say. “It’s… Merlot.”
“That just made it gayer,” he says.
We manage to wrangle him into a dressing room with a few selections, then stand outside the door so he can’t escape. A woman with a very bewildered expression emerges nearby, wearing a little white summer dress with a flouncy skirt.
“Aw, that’s pretty,” I say.
“Is it?” she says, her desperation leaking from every pore. “I don’t know anything about this style. Is this cute? My hips are too big for this. I feel like a dust mop.”
“No, darlin’, it’s great!” says Preppy, and he’s off assisting her.
Then another woman is at my side, brandishing a pair of madras shorts.
“Excuse me,” she says. “What shirt would go with these other than white? My husband always gets stains on white shirts.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t work here.”
“I know,” she says. “I just wanted your opinion.”
Welcome to Queer Eye for the Straight Gap.
I’m always hyper-aware of scenarios like this. I can’t begin to count the number of baby showers, bridal parties, or lingerie shopping excursions I’ve been asked to attend over the years. At least once a month Preppy calls to say he’ll be home late because one of his girlfriends needs help picking out a dress or cute pair of shoes. For my friend Katie’s wedding a few years back, I did the makeup for the entire bridal party.
I am not a trained professional, and frankly there’s nothing about my wardrobe that indicates I have an excess of taste to share with the world. When someone hands me a bouquet of flowers and says, “Do something with these,” my only instinct is to throw them away. Somehow, somewhere, a list was compiled of traits everyone assumes you have if you’re a guy who likes to kiss other guys. It’s this damn chicken/egg scenario I don’t have a clear grasp on: Did I have a natural instinct about what shade of lipstick looks best with which skin tone, or is this something I cultivated because everyone kept asking my opinion on the subject.
Is this the by-product of integrating into the culture?
By increasing our visibility and relevance, we’ve been assigned tasks which all of us are expected to perform? Not once, ever in his life, has Nelson been asked for his opinion on what color to paint a room or where to hang a picture, although he’d have just as informed an opinion as I do. But he is consistently asked to help move furniture or change the oil in someone’s car, tasks I can perform just as easily, but I’m never asked. Which is just as well, because I hate doing shit like that.
I suppose the nature versus nurture debate is irrelevant, because either way here we are, playing fashion consultants to the dressing room. When Preppy walks away from the girl in the flouncy dress, she’s got a big smile on her face and a healthy boost of confidence, as does Nelson when he walks out with his bag of new clothes.
And that may be why I don’t resist the role the world at large expects me to play sometimes: When I’m approached and asked to pick out a shirt for someone’s husband, they’re identifying me as someone with authority to share. It’s an opportunity to forge a small connection and be the person who made their day a little brighter.
I suppose the nature versus nurture debate is irrelevant, because either way here we are, playing fashion consultants to the dressing room. When Preppy walks away from the girl in the flouncy dress, she’s got a big smile on her face and a healthy boost of confidence, as does Nelson when he walks out with his bag of new clothes.
And that may be why I don’t resist the role the world at large expects me to play sometimes: When I’m approached and asked to pick out a shirt for someone’s husband, they’re identifying me as someone with authority to share. It’s an opportunity to forge a small connection and be the person who made their day a little brighter.
And that’s not a bad role to play.
