Build-a-Boyfriend

ENTERTAINMENT | STYLE

Written by Luke Fisher (he/him) | @lukefish7_ | Contributing Writer

Illustration by Chloe Bettina (she/her) | @lilclodoodles | Contributing Artist

The Realisation

My morning routine was simple yet effective. Like most days, I played dead for five “bed minutes”—or half an hour—before reluctantly easing myself onto the cold carpet below.  Getting dressed was first on my agenda. Underpants first—the Star Wars briefs at the top of the pile did the trick.

On went my one pair of plain blue jeans. But then it got tricky: shirts. Did I go sporty with my 2015 Blackcaps polo? Or maybe classy, with my plain black, unwashed Hallensteins tee? I eventually settled on my Nike shirt which, in my delusions, made my chest and biceps bulge.

I was satisfied with my outfit, but later on in the day, my bubble was well and truly burst.

“What is that? Boys’ size 16?”

It hit me like a freight train. At that moment,  I was Adam; Karangahape Road was my Garden of Eden, and that comment was my apple. I looked down at myself, horrified.  What was that thing down there? What on earth was I wearing?

I should introduce myself. I’m Luke, a straight white male with ZERO fashion sense. My appearance is often so unnoteworthy that it becomes, in itself, noteworthy. I wish this piece were about self-awareness manifesting into self-improvement, but all credit must go to my girlfriend. You don’t know her, she goes to another school. Justifiably, she doesn’t want her name associated with someone who admits to owning Star Wars briefs with holes in them.

But she thinks I can be saved. I’m going through a set of reforms rivalling Rogernomics. We started with my wardrobe.

SAVE-E-MART

The first stop on our red carpet preparation tour was New Lynn’s Savemart. Savemart is a second-hand clothing outfit that operates 28 stores across the motu. Bargains were the top priority. The bougie came later.

I plodded behind my girlfriend as she strode confidently inside. But suddenly, I was a deer in headlights, transfixed by the sheer scale of the place.

Rows upon rows of clothes, from chic to casual, as far as the eye could see. Infinite racks of hidden gems sat on bare concrete. The happy hum of enthusiastic bargain hunters did well to offset the harshness of the fluorescent lighting above.

An exasperated cry broke my daze.

“Oi! Come try these on.”

I immediately obeyed my queen’s instructions and headed towards the changing rooms, three pairs of pants in hand. Savemart has an impressive number of changing rooms. Selecting one felt like choosing a room at the Infinite Hotel. I can’t pretend to understand Hilbert’s Paradox, but I do know that infinity is a lot.

I wrestled one pair of jeans past my hips only to realise I had zero chance of moving the fly, let alone doing up the button. 

“They’re too small,” I mumbled meekly from my stall.

“Let’s see,” said my girlfriend, sceptical of my judgement.

It’s important to note that from the waist down I looked like Darth Vader if he had Owen Wilson’s nose and wore a brown quarter-zip sweater. I came dangerously close to exposing her to that image. In the end, common sense prevailed and I gave a better explanation instead.

That failed size-up took some wind out of our sails, but the next pair restored it and then some. Well, for me at least. I tried these pants on and was instantly sold. The stretchy material. The smart casual look. The freedom they gave me to bend and rotate. They were the perfect golf pants. My girlfriend rolled her eyes and sighed.

Savemart was a success, if only in my eyes. But it was time for some results. It was time to ‘Cotton On’ to modern-day trends.

Cotton On

While dwarfed by Savemart in size, Cotton On pulled through. Weirdly enough, I thought we were at a Hallensteins the entire time. But I digress.

Both suckers for a bargain, we made a beeline for the discount rack. We struck gold. Baggy jeans. The perfect antithesis to the drainpipes that had been strangling my legs for aeons. A ‘Pablo’ short-sleeved button-up shirt that fit me much better than my high school era hand-me-downs.

I made my way to the changing rooms, surviving an awkward interaction with a staff member. Ideally, I need five business days to prepare for any social interaction. But I made it, put on my new discoveries, and emerged looking like a SNACK.

I had the tan cable-knit button-up tucked into the baggy blue jeans. I even had a belt on. This was the first time in a long time I’d felt genuine glee at my appearance. Not used to feeling anything more than indifference towards my reflection, I was sold. 

Footlocker, Farmers & Feet

Neither Footlocker nor Farmers were originally in our plans, but the spending floodgates were open. She told me I needed a pair of stylish sneakers to go with my outfits. I was so inspired by my transformation that I would’ve said yes to anything, even an assless pants, goggles and studded collar combo.

While trying on a pair of Vans my big toe peeked out of my sock. She looked at the sock with disdain. The way this coalition government looks at public sector jobs. This sock explains the trip to Farmers.

A Look in the Mirror

So after golf pants, two shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shoes, some socks, and a balance alert notification from my bank, we were done. Think of the following collection of thoughts as a window into my head. It’s a place of discombobulation, where the only certainty is uncertainty.

I imagined clothes shopping as a simple, straightforward, enjoyable experience. It wasn’t. While I benefitted, I also experienced somewhat of an identity crisis. I can’t recall any time I’d ever raw-dogged clothes shopping like that before. Perusing racks without looking online first? It's like I got to live someone else’s life for a few hours. 

Looking good felt great, but it also felt wrong, like I’d disrupted my canon. Mediocrity is all I’ve ever known and I have a deep-seated fear of change. But I think this change was vital. Now, I’m just trying to come to grips with the sorry state of my bank account. I hope buying a few new clothes means I’ve completed fashion. A decade of austerity may be in order.

More complications. According to my girlfriend, I can’t just wear the clothes—I have to wear them in a certain way. She suggested I cuff the hems of my jeans, but this doesn’t sit right with me. The only times I’ve ever rolled up my pant legs were for Mum’s classic “you’ll grow into them” purchases. But, my girlfriend/style commissioner was elected on a clear mandate: to fix me at all costs. She hasn’t been wrong yet.

On a similar note, I wonder when I should wear my new outfits. I could wear them to classes, but perhaps there’s a better approach. If there’s one thing I learnt from the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series, it’s always to set people’s expectations low so you end up surprising them by doing practically nothing at all. That’s my modelling motto.

I just can’t stop thinking about that Hallensteins-Cotton On mixup. Was it denial, because I couldn’t handle such a massive identity shift? I turned to my psychologist, Dr C. GPT, in search of answers. It suggested that the mistake symbolised a tug-of-war between my two conflicting selves. I’m “teetering between being the quintessential Kiwi bloke who’s unbothered by fashion trends and someone who’s perhaps more aware of, or even tempted by, the shifting currents of style.” 

Or maybe I’m just a moron.