Good news this morning: Someone on Classmates.com has remembered me as “well-dressed.” I’m halfway tempted to renew my membership in order to find out who, but then I seem to recall that the site’s menu offers only about a half dozen choices, all of them positive. So, technically, there’s no way I could have been remembered as “the most pathetic dork in the entire high school.”
Still, I’m flattered—even as I sit here today, a 78-year-old man wearing baggy sweatpants and soiled T-shirt. And as a matter of fact, there was a time in my young life when I was a pretty sharp dresser, thanks to the fact I worked at a men’s clothing store where I had ample opportunity to peruse the merchandise. Moreover, I had a good role model in the person of Dave Pizzuto, who was far and away the coolest cat in the entire county. Not only was David a sharp dresser, but he was also handsome, married to a beautiful woman and drove an MG sports car retrofitted with a V-8 engine. My fondest hope at the time was that some of that coolness might somehow rub off on me.
My boss at the Continental Shop was about six years my senior—same age as my brother Jim, who, like Dave Pizzuto, was also a sharp dresser. (Being the oldest of three brothers, his wardrobe didn’t consist entirely of hand-me-downs.) My brother also drove a cool car—a souped-up ’49 Chevy coupe—and bore a strong resemblance to Buddy Holly. According to his yearbook, he was the “cutest boy in school.”
Which I was not, probably because it’s not a distinction offered by Classmates.com. Too bad, because back when I was a paid subscriber to the site, I posted carefully curated photos of myself taken at various exotic locations around the globe. My goal then was to re-invent myself as something other than the most pathetic dork in my high school. However, I’ve since given up on the project. At my age, I no longer harbor resentment toward those who once snubbed me—because one thing I’ve discovered is that all of us, with the possible exception of Dave Pizzuto, were insecure in high school and famished for compliments. I suppose to some degree I still am; I’m just not willing to fork over good money in order to find out who among my former classmates has misremembered me as “well-dressed.”