I Clipped My Wings

No, I'm not a fallen angel that decided to live among the human race, and the wings I'm referring to aren't actually feathered limbs attached to my back. I'm referring to "being fly." For all of the culturally retarded and "unhip" people out there, being fly (by my definition) is wearing fashionable drab that is either flashy, expensive, current, or beyond the cultural norm of desirable outer wear.

I'm sure many of you don't think I am or ever was fly, but I'd like to think I used to be (before I clipped my wings of course). You might have seen me stomping around Towson's campus like the sun came up to shed light on how good I look, or you might have seen me posing on a wall at church with my I'm blessed face on, or you might have even seen me at the mall pretending to look at designer shirts in designer stores so that I can see how much I would save by going to the rip-off store. Either way, I used to think I had achieved some "air" with my attire. Regardless of how horribly I failed at looking good, I thought I found success, and when no one's bold enough to show you failure, you call it greatness.

Now I didn't clip my wings because I realized that my flapping was about as successful as a chicken's with no head, but I did commit the deed with ulterior motives. I waltzed around on cloud nine for a while before I started to question, why?

When I put a little thought into it (yes, I'm not always as dumb as I look) I realize I dressed the way I did for the approval of others. As humbling as this thought is, I'd bet my bottom dollar (what does that even mean!) that most of you also dress for the approval of others. If you don't, then your either over 35 (no not you Mr. 35 and still dancing with 18-year old girls in the club, you'll always be a young spry chicken), socially awkward and possibly friendless, or your just human enough to not care what other people think. Kudos to you if your option number three. (PS. This does not refer to business attire or uniforms, I'm referring solely to the clothes we were at leisure).

Dressing to impress also lead me to discover that I dressed to impress a specific type of human. I'm not homosexual, and so I prefer to catch the eyes of women. Consequently, I walk down Towson's campus with the sun as my spotlight because I want the ladies to notice me. I'm not superficial, but subconsciously I am tying a fake worm to a hook and hoping the tuna enjoy their meals made in a factory (this is not a reference to the bad jokes about girls smelling like fish. This is just a metaphor).

This touched on a deeper issue, and I started to look back on the long list (don't ask how long) of failed relationships. If I use fake bait, and the fish don'tlike fake worms, then why would the fish be satisfied? I know I'd be mad if I went to McDonald's and sank my teeth into a juicy Big Mac...made of wood.

In short, dressing flashy and essentially packing myself into the uncomfortable and always changing mold of society wasn't what I was looking for. Dress like you have money, and some people might believe you. I'm not looking for a gold digger, and I don't want a girlfriend thats with me for my looks. I might not be the most interesting person in the world, but I'd like to attract someone that didn't think the best thing about me was my shirt or shoes. I guess it takes "liking me even when the clothes come off" to a whole new level.

Is it so much to want to be liked for who you are? Oh, and sorry to the girls that thought I was something that I wasn't. If you could see me, I'd shrug my shoulders and put a dumb smirk on my face.

So goodbye wings. You brought a lot of attention, but I'd much rather have the right type of attention from one girl, then the wrong type of attention from 100.

I understand that what I've realized isn't for everyone, and by no means am I recommending that everyone stop caring so much about looks, but all I can say is that I'm a real worm and I'd like to catch a real fish.