Counter-Rebellion Rebelling Is The Best Kind Of Rebellion

So I'm sitting here in this Starbucks in a pretty well-to-do neighborhood (the one where the silly girl witnessed to me a while back), staring at the editor for my blog wondering how the hell I'm ever going to catch up for the past month of near-silence (save for a sporadic post time and again). And the very first thing I feel compelled to discuss is my new "look." It's kinda crazy - in just one month, I've completely changed my outward appearance to the world.

Because I've gotten the crazy idea that I'd start running marathons with my wife, I've lost a pretty great amount of weight (over and above what I've already lost by working out and training for the foosball), EVERYTHING I own - even my underwear - hung on my body and looked rather awful. And, somehow, I've decided that maybe it was time I begin actually taking some effort with my appearance and begin dressing "nicer."

So, my wonderful wife took me shopping the day after Thanksgiving and basically played dress-up, and put me in pants that don't hang down my legs due to being three sizes too big and tied to my waist by a belt that quit fitting me 50 lbs ago. I've donated three sacks (the big black lawn bag size, too) of pants, shirts and a few jackets to Goodwill, and am starting over.

I've got a for-real, paid-for big-boy haircut (the first one in nearly 12 years, prompted by the death of my hair clippers and the subsequent message from God that I should probably quit giving myself a "Number 2" and grow up a little and go let someone else manage my hair every three weeks). I bought shoes without a Nike logo for the first time in a long time. My socks actually have a COLOR.

I own a sweater, people. SWEATER. And I actually have clothes that are to be washed on the delicate cycle. It's crazy. But hey, I'll admit it - I actually look pretty decent. But I'm still the same old me - at least, I feel like the same old me. I don't feel alien or strange in my new duds. They fit, and I feel comfortable in them. But I think that's more a symptom of my not giving a rat's ass about what other people think about how I dress than anything else. It's a strange dichotomy, not caring how I look while actively improving how I look. But there it is, to be dissected however you see fit.

So I'm sitting here in this packed social hub for people who don't need to go to church this morning and for the first time in a long time, I pretty much fit in. I look like a normal person... If normal people were 6'3" and look as if they could make their own doorways through walls. And the thought that goes through my head right now is "man, if only they knew that 1/3 of my body was covered in permanent anime pajamas."

And it's kinda funny to think that this is actually my form of rebellion - dressing normally. I'm bucking the system by cloaking myself. Because I've never regarded my tattoos or any of my antics as counter-culture or "being myself" or any of that shit. I just liked tattoos and Akira and thought "hey, it worked for peanut butter and chocolate, so what the fuck?"

And here I am, writing about it, mostly because I was just struck with how strange the thought actually is. It's sorta strange to me that I'm comfortable looking how I look, and yet somehow I want to roll up my sleeves and throw up a flag that says "By the way, uppity folk... I'm not like you."

What does that mean?