Wit Stop

WIT STOP Some People Don't Have the Stomach for Cowboy Garb

Dateline: Dude Ranch, AZ. Clothes, they say, make the man. Cowboy clothes, though, do not make a cowboy. It was my first morning at the Dude Ranch, and I stood, demoralized, before the full-length mirror in my room. My cowboy togs didn't look like rugged Western wear, but like a Halloween costume gone bad. On my shopping spree before this City Slicker vacation, I selected each item carefully, hoping that the ensemble would make me look like Gene Autry, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. It didn't. Instead I looked like the stunt double for Moe in The Three Stooges Go West.

I tried to visualize myself dressed like this riding a wagon train across open prairie. Suddenly a few Indians on horseback appeared on the crest of a distant hill. Then several hundred more mounted warriors came into view behind them. In my fantasy, they swooped down at full gallop toward us. Hastily, we drove the wagons into a circle. Women and children loaded rifles as we men braced for a heroic stand.

Then the Indian chief approached our wagon train and said, "No, no, we're not attacking. We just wanted to get a look at that city guy who's dressed up in the silly cowboy outfit."

The wagon master called me forward and put me on display. The Indians had a good laugh and rode back over the hill, slapping their thighs in glee. A few laughed so hysterically, they fell off their horses and had to remount. Even their ponies bared their huge teeth and sort of chuckled to themselves.

When they got back to their village, they'd send a few smoke signals, and the entire episode would be repeated when we reached the next tribe.

As my pathetic image taunted me from the mirror, I had to admit the Indians were right. I was laughable. If I had lived in the Old West, I would have had to join a nudist camp to avoid looking ridiculous. It was no small confession to admit that one looked less silly naked than in that faux-Western garb.

Some can wear cowboy duds; others can't. I was obviously one of the others.

It all started with the hat. I had difficulty finding one to fit. Oh, I don't mean 6 and % or 7 and %. I could find the right size. But I couldn't find a cowboy hat whose shape fit the proportions of my body. If the brim was too big, I looked like an alien spacecraft had just landed on my head. If the crown was too small, I looked like I had a felt growth on my noggin that should be lanced. In any case, I wore a 10gallon hat, 8.5 gallons of which looked just plain dumb.

Then there was the belt buckle. There are basically two kinds of cowboy bellies. There's the flat, washboardlike stomach with not an ounce of fat, and there's the huge beer belly where the belt comes around and then under the midsection so the belt buckle looks like Atlas holding up the world. Big metal belt buckles look appropriate on either of those tummy types. Me? I looked like I was holding up my pants with a manhole cover.

And the boots made me look awkward. The heels were so high that I pitched forward.

When I moved, I felt like I was walking down an eternal gangplank. When I stood still, I looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in blue jeans.

The jeans were another problem. Real cowhands wear dusty, faded, well-worn trousers. My jeans were neat, starched, and as blue as a marine's dress uniform. And they chafed the inside of my thighs something awful. I was the only cowpoke at the ranch who wanted to wear his chaps on the inside.

Between the boots and the denim drawers, I walked like a cowboy who was headed downhill to the nearest pharmacist to get something that would cure diaper rash.

But I was paying for this vaca-tion, so I endured. I wore my cowpunching togs to the flapjack breakfast, on the trail ride, and to lunch at the chuckwagon. I kept them on for the afternoon roping lessons, the amateur rodeo, the evening cocktail party, and barbecue. I yodeled lustily through the after-dinner singalong, even hollering "yippeeki-yo" and waving my hat when instructed to. The hat even looked nerdy when I held it in my hand. When we finally ended with "Happy Trails to You," I felt my day's humiliation was almost over.

But it wasn't.

The wrangler said, "All you cowboys and cowgirls head to the barn right now for this evening's entertainment: line dancing lessons."

More hilarity at my expense. Finally, at day's end, I slipped out of my cowboy clothes and into my pajamas with the little guns and holsters printed all over them. Worn out from the day's ridin', ropin', and ridicule endurin', I slept peacefully and well. I dreamed of myself back home, comfortably dressed in polyester, button-down shirt, and shoes with laces. Ride 'em, City Slicker.