One recent morning at CheeseGov, I stepped onto the elevator, followed by a dude wearing a duster coat and fedora. If Neo from The Matrix and Indiana Jones had a baby, it would be that fella.
It takes a certain kind of person to pull off that look, I thought. And that guy ain’t me.
Tara and I had this discussion once. We were enjoying cocktails and food at a bar and grill in Loveland, Colorado, when another couple came in and were seated at a nearby table. The guy just screamed “Front Range cowboy” with his flannel shirt, Stetson, and boots. I’ll bet you anything he had a giant belt buckle too.
“I could totally pull off that look!” I told Tara.
After nearly choking on her beer, my wife informed me there was no way in hell I could ever get away with wearing a cowboy hat. For some reason, this made me immediately defensive, and I crafted a spirited, meticulous rebuttal to prove my point.
“Can too!” I said.
“Cannot!” Tara replied.
Amazingly, neither of us ever joined the debate team.
My point was this: if we walk into a public place full of strangers and I’m dressed like Front Range Cowboy, nobody is going to bat an eye. For all they know, I’m a rancher rather than a writer. Maybe I rustle up cattle instead of social media posts. Ride a horse rather than drive a Kona. I might be the type of fella who chews on blades of grass while staring contemplatively into the distance, a place I refer to as “out yonder.” That could be my everyday getup, and they would be none the wiser.
Tara wasn’t buying that though. “It isn’t you,” she said. Which is rather vague if you ask me. Is it my head? I wondered. The last thing in the world I needed was a complex about my head, as there isn’t much I can do to change that. Maybe it was my gait. I tend to stroll, but dammit, I’m sure I could put a hitch in my giddy up if the situation called for one! My better half was underestimating my ability to go cowboy, I thought, but when she made me promise to “stick to baseball caps” I realized I would never convince her otherwise and let the matter drop.
All these memories coursed through my (hopefully not weird-looking) head on the 10-second elevator ride to the sixth floor. By the time the door opened with a ding, I was half-convinced I could, in fact, pull off the whole duster-and-fedora look after all.
If we walk into a public place full of strangers and I’m dressed like Neo-meets-Indiana-Jones, nobody is going to bat an eye. For all they know, I’m an archaeologist/historian/college professor trying to decide between the blue pill and the red pill!
(For the record, I think I’d take the blue pill. Ignorance is bliss.)
Last week’s weather was kinda wild. We had about an inch and a half of rain, and also an inch and a half of snow (all of which melted quickly). When it wasn’t raining or snowing – or both, as was the case at times – it was sunny with nary a cloud in the sky.
This made for a white-knuckle drive home on Wednesday and a picture-perfect afternoon on Thursday.
Such is almost-spring in the Midwest.
It’s going to be 65° on Monday and 70° on Friday (but colder in between), so real-spring is right around the corner.
What do you think: could I pull off the cowboy look? Any sign of spring in your neck of the woods yet? Red pill or blue pill?
Mark My Words 
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