hat does one wear to a survivalist summit? My physical appearance shouldn’t be too much of a problem since I’m white, forty-ish and, if I pause in my increasingly elaborate maintenance rituals, go pretty ragged pretty quickly. But the clothes worry me. After I turned 40, my friend Gabe took me aside for a kind of personal sartorial intervention.
“You cannot wear those pants any more,” he said.
“Why not?” They were just jeans.
“They’re puffy. They look like parachute pants.” He paused, examined them again, corrected himself. “They look like the pants in Aladdin.”
Like a good friend, he was communicating the information I didn’t want to face but needed to know: I would never look good by accident again. Fortunately, Gabe had a plan: tailored jeans, which are, I have to say, the middle age man’s ass’s best friend