Huffy Life: 001

I've put up a couple of new pieces on desaturate. And I've got a few CARPET SUGARs on deck. Or in the hole. I'll let your vulgarity preferences reign over that one.

But so anyway, I've got this thing for Huffys. I suppose it's kind of a new development, but only in the way that a forty-six year-old man realizing he's a homosexual after fourteen years in a loveless marriage is a new development. One of those things where like, yeah, all the signs were there, but fuck if he was ready to accept that his persistently flaccid phallus was his body's way of telling him that no, it's not the fact that her ass has dropped like an eighth grader's coinpurse, nor is it because her chest, at best, resembles oily flapjacks or seasoned whoopie cushions, but rather that yes, those fifteen minutes alone with his mildly-delayed step-uncle in the family cabin on his seventh Christmas were the most stimulating, passionate, and wholesomely alive moments of his life. You know?

I'll keep this relatively brief for now, but, if you will, come with me for a moment; let's brainstorm what we know about the Huffy. In later episodes, we'll further explore the intricate weavings that make up the Huffy loom that is our lives, but for this introductory glance, calling on our pasts and the Huffys that comprised them will be more than adequate.

I'll start.

When someone mentions Huffy, the first thing that invariably comes to mind is the damning word, "Husky." And really, that makes perfect sense. Of course there's the obvious linguistic similarities, which likely account for a portion of the association, but I'm convinced that the root of the matter is much more tangled in the myriad insecurities of my youth as a chubbly.

School shopping has become quite a thing for quite a few people these days. It's the opportunity to virtually reset your entire life, simply by doing what most Americans do best: consuming. So last year you were a youth-groupin' prude whose most daring article of clothing was the fruit punch-stained ESPIRIT tanktop your older cousin left in your room when she came to visit, even though she spent all of her time proving to your older brother's friends that, yes, she is from California and, yes, that's exactly what she means by that. Well here's your chance to shorten those skirts and tighten those shirts, because, frankly, if you're not fuckable, you're not lovable. Had all the kids that hate Hot Topic but buy all their clothes from Hot Topic already heard of every band of which you'd bought a shirt? Now's the time to scope out the mall delivery days to get the newest shirt for Anthony Green's newest band before those bleached-banged bastards can say "Translating The Name" five times fast.

But I digress.

What I'm getting at is, school shopping for me was much less a reinvention than it was the desperate plight to somehow fit into jeans that were no more than three sizes larger than my older brother's, if only because it'd give him marginally less to deride me with while squeezing my lovehandles in front of the mirror while I tried to brush my teeth. It was me trying to convince my dad that yes, those size 14s really did fit well and no, he didn't need to come out of the dressing room so he could test the waistband tension with his tailor's thumb. Those 14s? They weren't regular 14s. They weren't my brother's 10 Slims. No, they were 14 Husky.

Husky.

Fucking really? What middlesex parent given domain over Herberger's boys line honestly thought that was anything other than the most horrible thing they could do to some poor, chunky kid. Here, Randy, you're a little too big for the 14s, but instead of moving up to the not-humiliatingly-titled 16s, just wear these 14 Huskies. See? You're still wearing 14s like you were before we had to punch a new hole in your belt, but these ones are made specifically for your portly ponch. And if that wasn't good enough, the size is printed on the waistband label of the pants so all of your classmates won't have to spend five seconds thinking of another word for fat when they see your wedgied bubblebutt on pendulum while you gaspingly sloth around the kickball bases.

The least they could've done is call them 14 Fatfucks. Husky is what your aunt calls you at family dinners because she knows her sister-in-law, your mother, isn't going to take too kindly to her calling you chunky. Or how your dad's friends say you're growing into a "good, thick build." You're not going to announce a miscarriage and then, when the mother starts crying, pat her hand and say you'll double-check. Such blatant euphemisms are no less insulting and obvious at such a fragile age, if not more so.

Again, I digress. Though, maybe not. My most vivid association with that which is Huffy is, as I said, most certainly Husky. That which I've afore discussed swims in smooth suit with the ranks of the Huffy; sad, pathetic, embarrassing, shameful, and so undeniably American. A Huffy is a husky kid's bike. Whether either party knows it or not, they're a match made in Huffyven.

I really kind of lost it with this one.