Thursday, July 07, 2005

The Transformation of a Metrosexual

Apparently I am not the only person in my household on a mission for health and beauty. Handsome Husband has been tapping into his inner vanity, little by little, more and more, each of the nine years we've been together. It's reaching a level that is not exactly of red-flag proportions, but I'm wondering now when it will level off.

When we first met, Husband was a Wall Street broker whose fashion sense was limited to a couple expensive suits and a fist-full of designer ties, and pajamas. Even back then, he was tres uppity about the designers he wore in the work place. This uppitiness was developed because brokers on Wall Street cause a festering macho vanity I have not witnessed before. They are a bunch of bitches. Husband said it was like a morning-ritual square off where another broker would confront him in the hall -- wide gait, hands to the side -- and with the quickest of movements he'd open Husband's suit jacket to reveal a label, or flip over his tie to expose the underbellied label all to either bash or nonchalantly nod (highest form of Wall Street Bitch praise) at the discovered designer. Many of the WSBitches could tell a designer from cut and fabric of suit or tie. "Wha? You only wear Zegna now? That's gay." Meaning: That's hot and I wish I wore Zegna too. And Husband would proudly nod, and strut his Zegna tie which he'd keep flipped over for everyone to see.

A couple months after Husband and I met, I took a trip to Paris with my mother and I bought Husband a tie there because I understood the pressure he was under and I thought, What better way to slap these WSB's around than with some Euro silk? I bought this beautiful, funky fabric (non-recognizable designer) tie and mailed it to him when I got back. (I lived in the OC and he lived in NY at the beginning of our courtship). He loved the tie, but weeks later he confessed that one of the WSB's had discovered the tiniest of labels tucked away in the lining (the lining!) that read: "Made In Italy." I still suspect it was Husband that found this label and though he swore he loved and wore the tie, I would bet lots and lots of money that he never wore the tie to work again just to dodge the "Hey, there's the fake frenchy Italian tie." And if he wasn't wearing the tie at work, it wasn't worn. Unless he tied it around his waist to keep his favorite sweatpants up.

Back then, he was also 25lbs heavier than now and 25lbs heavier than before he worked on Wall Street because he went from avid, near-pro tennis jock to steak&frenchfries-at-midnight Boiler Room broker guy. You know he got murdered on this too by the WSB's. One once yelled out as they passed each other in the hall, "Hey, do you know that pleats in pants are not supposed to POP OUT?" Bitches!

Inevitably, Husband quit Wall Street -- the company he worked for was about to be indicted (whoops) -- and he packed up all his things and moved to Cali to be with me. Smart man. We unpacked his things: expensive suits, fist-full of designer ties, pajamas, sweats, tshirts, and terrible middle-ground gear. He wore untied Timberlands with drab khaki cargo shorts or unflattering mom jeans with striped Polo shirts. He also had a near-purple nylon athletic suit. Maybe in junior high or on the set of Do The Right Thing, this look was fly. I realized our love was true when I looked passed all that. But I knew he needed help with his gear and his health.

Husband is a total stud now; fit and way more lean and muscular than when we first met because California just begs to live life actively, and because I introduced him to my friends Fruit and Vegetable. Later, he met Brown Rice and Whole Wheat Pasta. He even befriended Ms. Tofu who he had been avoiding and sneering at for years; he realized she ain't half bad. He still has flesh affairs with Pork and Steak, but that's few and far between. And as for Husband's fashion sense now. . . it's off the chain. He's become a jeans whore equaled only by me. Over the years I've seen his gear go from thuggy baggy to fitted Metro. Hot. He tries new hairstyles. Experiments with gels. His shoes are stylish and colorful. He even tried moisturizer that I bought him. But considering the bottle is only half-used after a year, he's still warming to that.

The newest click of Husband's transformation is how he now studies Men's Health magazine like I study Shape and Fitness and People and US and whatever other anorexically maddening literature that I can obsessively get my hands on. Husband, after recently experiencing crippling leg cramps on the tennis court, announced that he was going "hard-core militant" at the gym because he didn't want to ever experience his legs failing him again. He was going to strengthen his legs and sculpted his abs like no tomorrow. I said, "What do abs have to do with leg cramps?" He shrugged. God, he's precious.

In the bathroom I saw his Men's Health Ultimate Abs Workout Pull Out tucked above the toilet. After seeing that, my heart gushed a little and I went into the living room and told him how hot and handsome I think he is. Just like he's said to me so many times too when I've lamented a certain size jean or cursed an unflattering picture.

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