Wardrobe Choices

Would you want your son doing this?

Uncle John's space suit? Uncle John's clown costume?  Authentic cowboy ensemble?  Jeans and a T-shirt?  In the end, the eldest goes with his daily schlub-wear, for fear of looking like a complete and utter idiot for his "Wipeout" audition.  There are those who can pull off the clown costume (my brother) or the astronaut look (my brother) or the authentic cowboy ensemble (Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid).  And there are those who can't pull it off (the eldest).  "Are you excited about the audition?"  I ask him. "Yeah.  I figure what the eff, I've got nothing to lose.  It's not like I'm an actor or anything."  "That's the spirit.  Just go out there and be yourself."  "Wanna see my victory dance?" "Don't you think that's a little premature?  You haven't been cast yet."  "They want to see the victory dance at the audition."  I tell him, "Hit it!"  He proceeds to spin around in a circle, arms spread out, airplane-style, and whoop a few times.  "That's it, huh?"  "You don't like it?"  "I think you need to up the enthusiasm, and crank the volume on the whooping."  I reinterpret his victory dance, give it my own pizazz.  "Like that."  "Okay.  I see where you're going with this.  More energy."  "Or you could change it up and go another way, entirely.  Allow me to demonstrate," I say, forgetting my lower back, Zumba-related issues.  I shake the booty, I roll my neck, I twirl like a dreidel, emitting obnoxious toot-toot sounds that send Dusty cowering behind the sofa.  "You do my dance, and you're in, baby."  "Yeah, I don't think so," he says.  "Fine," I say, trying not to take the rejection too personally.  He heads out the door.  "Good luck, honey," I say, conveniently omitting the kina hora, because, honestly, I won't be disappointed if he doesn't score the chance to go on national TV and risk breaking every limb in his anatomy.  But that's just between us, right?