I'm not the most stylish guy in the world. Or even the most stylish guy on my block. Honestly, there's a good chance that I'm not the most stylish guy who's ever worn these pants. I'm not proud to be a slob, per se -- but at this stage, I'm not sure there's much I can do about it. Not without a visit from the Queer Eye crew, anyway.


The good news is that it seems I'm not alone. A recent study has shown that most men identify themselves as either 'metrosexuals' -- think hair products and silk ties -- or the also-cleverly-coined 'retrosexuals', meant to invoke visions of wifebeater T-shirts and Chuck Taylor sneaks. Now, I consider myself somewhere in between -- I'm about as likely to shoot a moose as I am to use mousse in my hair. But I'm definitely camped out on the 'retro' side of the spectrum.


(And by the way, are we finished with the cute names yet? What's next -- if you like to dress up like an animal doctor, are you a vet-rosexual? Along the same lines, should we call guys with big furry backs pet-rosexuals? And if they shave it off, are they then Gilette-rosexuals? These are questions that I'm sorry I ever asked. Moving on.)


Of course, my wife wishes that I were a bit more 'presentable'. Apparently, she likes to go out in public, and mingle with other people, and eat meals that don't come wrapped in foil. Which is all well and good, but she's got this crazy idea that I should also be involved, somehow. I don't recall that sort of nonsense coming up during the wedding vows, but I wasn't really paying close attention at the time. I was too busy fighting with my mother-in-law-to-be over the cutoff jeans and tuxedo tee I was wearing. I tried to point out that the black Chuck Taylors counted as formalwear, but she wasn't impressed. Women, eh?


I suppose I could try to clean up a bit, though. There must be a class I could take, or maybe a seminar of some kind. I imagine there's someone out there offering a whole weekend series to guys like me, with titles like 'Sweatpants Aren't the Only Pants', 'One Manicure Doesn't Make You a Sissy', and 'Ties -- They're Knot Just for Funerals Any More'. I could show up in shorts and flip-flops, and walk out in a pressed suit and new loafers. It might even be worth the money -- and the ribbing I'd take over the manicure from my friends. They're not enlightened, stylish clothes hounds like the 'new me', you know.


The problem with cleaning myself up, of course, is that I'd just end up going out to nice places. You can't show off a new set of expensive threads by sitting at a ball game or standing in line for McDonalds slop, after all. If I were to ever get myself together, the wife would be dragging me out to expensive restaurants, or fancy parties, or -- depending on the quality of that manicure -- heaven forbid, the opera. I'd never have a few minutes to myself to sit in my boxers and drink beer again. Forget that. I'll stay my own slobby self, thank you very much. I may not look 'fabulous', but I'm feeling pretty damned good.