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Popped Too Young
A coming of age story.
I was never one
to dress up... ever. My idea of dressing up in college was putting on a shirt,
usually emblazoned with a band's logo and surrounded by stains just faint
enough to be nearly invisible, that had only been worn twice since its
last wash. People were often appalled to find out I wore “dirty”
clothes. But hey... they couldn't tell until I told them so what was
the problem?
I've avoided the issue
for -oh -22 years or so. I've avoided... “them.” And frankly, it's
been pretty simple. Just ignore them; pretend they're not even there.
That way, I don't have to deal with them at all. But now, as I
approach “real life” and a “real job” as a substitute teacher, I've
been forced to confront them. I've been forced to accept them, even
invite them into my home. I'm talking about collared shirts - and more
specifically, the collars themselves.
Sure, they were around me at college. But if I didn't want to deal
with them, I didn't have to. I just didn't associate with them. I saw
a collar, I looked the other way. Can't I just do that now? I'm not
afraid of them. They're just not my thing. Difference is fine – I just
don't want it around me. Not every guy wears them, so why do I have
to? Can't we separate the collars from the non-collars? There should
be schools for non-collars that I could teach at. Maybe I should check
out Alabama or Mississippi.
I remember the first time I stood in front of the mirror in a collared
shirt. It was a nice light blue with a stripe
of navy blue across the chest. As I raised my eyes above the stripe, I
hit the three buttons and then the little flaps. Those damn flaps! I
asked myself, “What do you do with these things? What are they for? Do
girls' shirts have them”
I gingerly rubbed my fingers over one of them, unbuttoned the corners
from their own personal buttons. What were those buttons for? So many
buttons...five. It's not like the shirt was going to fall off if they
weren't buttoned, so why all the damn buttons? I tentatively flicked
the collar's corner up and watched it fall back into place. I ran my
hand around back. It was odd...like the shirt makers had had too much
material and had just decided to bend it over at the neck rather than
cut it. Could I cut it? It might look a little odd at first, but
people would get used to it.
I kept exploring, like everyone does when they first get one. I
flicked it again, then flicked both sides. I noticed the space
underneath the collar. I wondered... space underneath. I went over and
locked the bathroom door. Slowly, in front of the mirror I grabbed a hold of the flaps tightly and pulled up. It's a natural reaction.
It's nothing to be ashamed of, and yet it's hard even now to admit
to it. Once I'd gotten it all the way up, I let go and blushed. I
quickly shoved it back down.
“Idiot,” I thought. “What if someone saw you like that? With the
collar popped like that? They'd laugh at you.” And yet, I couldn't
resist. I did it again. And again. I must have popped my collar seven
times in front of that mirror that night. It never lasted long before
I'd flatten it back out against my shoulders and chest, but I kept at
it. As ashamed as I was, a part of me liked it, a part of me wanted to
do it again and again.
I'm past that now. It was a long, grueling struggle, but I've beaten
it. For the most part. Sometimes, when it's late at night and I'm
lonely, I'll pop my collar and then collapse into a bout of
self-loathing tears. In my weakest moments, when I've had a few too
many beers, I'll even pop it in public. Luckily, one of my friends
will discreetly step in front of me, hiding me in all my shame, and
smack some sense into me. But that doesn't happen much anymore. Like I
said, I've beaten it. For the most part.
Curiosity is what got me started, but it's unfortunately not people
like me who are the real problem in America. Rather, there is
currently an entire section of society that believes this “popping”
thing to be a mark of self-worth or individualism, or, at the worst, a
sign of one's cleverness and hip-ness. “Look at me and my crazy collar
popping! Who'd ever pop their collar, right guys? Right?” Well, I'll
tell you who. Everyone who has ever put on a collared shirt even once.
And then they end it. Because you look like an asshole. Sometimes,
though, people need a little help in realizing this. That where we
come in, people – non-poppers and recovered poppers alike.
I implore each and every person reading this: if you've got a friend
or loved one who pops their collar, explain to them how they are
destroying their life. They look ridiculous to everyone but other
poppers. It does not make them “cool” or “hip” - just sad and very,
very lame. Only we can stop this insidious plague before it gets out
of control. And, of course, this starts with ridicule. Lots of
ridicule. If you see someone with a popped collar, tell them what an asshat they look like. I wish someone had been there to call me a
doucheface when I'd been popping. Do whatever it takes. Yell names,
make signs, even throw things. Maybe
some day collared shirts will finally be phased out, but for now, the
best we can do is make sure that those who wear them, for whatever
reason, don't do so in a manner that makes them look like total dickwads.
- by Nathan Kester (edited version)
