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I Love Men Who Dress Even Shittier Than Adam Sandler

There’s something deceptively sexy about a man who reveals nothing about himself through his clothes

Adam Sandler is sexy for countless reasons. Little Nicky? Sexy. Uncut Gems? Anxious sexy. Being from New Hampshire? For reasons I hope never emerge from my psyche, also very sexy. But for me, the absolute sexiest thing about Adam Sandler is the way he dresses.

Obviously, he dresses badly. He dresses badly in a way, however, that suggests he doesn’t think for a single second about the articles of clothing he wears, save for the fact that they may offer comfort. 

This is exactly how I like men to dress. 

The best way to describe my ideal male aesthetic is “clothes his mom bought him for Christmas from JCPenney.” Some staples of this look include heather grey Henley long-sleeves, Fender T-shirts and completely anonymous denim pants. For shoes, he wears the most sensible pair in front of him. This could be anything from closed-toe sandals designed for wading across brooks to Etnies skate shoes he somehow still owns in the year 2021. The point is, there’s no thought put into it whatsoever. 

To be clear, if I ever came to learn that his garbage outfit was ironic — that he was dressing like Adam Sandler or bought a pair of Etnies to be funny — I would be completely turned off. What goal is he trying to achieve by intentionally dressing like he’s in a ragtag brigade of goth pirates? What message is he attempting to convey by carefully curating his wardrobe to be most reminiscent of Sonny Corleone? 

I’m sure he looks hot, but I can already tell he’s the type to ghost me. I’m judging a book by its cover, because that’s quite literally what fashion is for. 

Maybe you’re also thinking that men already have it too easy, that I needn’t give anyone permission to actually put in less effort. All I can offer in return is that you’re absolutely right. I’m a toxic pick-me. It’s fine. But at the core of my desire for badly dressed men is a belief that there’s a certain naiveté to them — they’re certainly not reading any fashion magazines or blogs, and they’re probably not on Twitter. If they’re on Instagram, they last posted a group photo of them as a groomsman at their childhood best friend’s wedding, and you can’t even tell which person in the photo they are. For the love of God, they’re not at the skatepark. 

To an extent then, what I like about men who don’t put any thought into their outfits is the mystery of it all. What else might they be thinking about, since they’re certainly not thinking about the clothes they put on their body? The ambiguity is exciting. What goes on in that enigmatic little brain of yours, boy in cargo shorts? Better yet, is there room in there to think of me?

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