While I admit to unevenly dangling my one pair of black dress pants over and into the oven last week to burn through the wrinkles, I think it’s important to note that I never expected they could also catch on fire and billow smoke through my kitchen. I’m a mere mortal without an iron or any understanding of basic chemistry and my shower doesn’t get hot enough to do that thing with the steam. It seems I’m also without a functioning alarm system. Strife!’
But I’m a fighter, and I had no intention of working the impending obscure function to which I had been assigned without looking my freshest and cleanest. I cut my fabric losses, resorted to an only slightly food-stained set of khakis and blue Oxford and consulted sock puppets on YouTube for a lesson in the Double Windsor.
Like a high school quarterback on a game day, I strode around the room with poise, subtly hinting at each variety of aircraft inscribed on my tie and catching my belt loops like a gentleman for every point at which I lifted my arms and the waist fell toward the carpet. I shined like the sun.
But there were threaded vests in the fleet of Asian chicken skewers and triangle brownies that surrounded me. Cuff links aplenty directed light at the absence of my own and most ‘- if not all ‘- of the shirts in sight were buttoned in correct sequence and without the aid of snaps. Suddenly, my polish was dulled, and I had no choice but to hide behind pots of obscure shrubbery for salvation.
In a society dominated by trillions of brand names and Project Runway, I still remain unconvinced that shorts-sporting in winter months is cause for scorn. There’s nothing worse than a sweaty pant leg after long walks, and I’ve maintained an obstinate protest to buck to trends at the expensive of dry calves. No, thank you.
As I sift through a closet’s worth of melting T-shirts and socks lined in dried callous blood, though, I’m beginning to think there’s a chance I’ve overstayed my childhood-ensemble welcome. And that’s not to say I’m completely out-of-touch ‘- some of my shirts have collars and I have one or two pairs of denim slacks from the Gap. I’m merely coming to terms with the idea that those shouldn’t be the outstanding exceptions between an influx of stretchy pants with golf balls on them and a goldenrod long-sleeve that says ‘Canada: America’s hat.’
But should this mean I have to cold-turkey part with my pair of Charlie Brown nativity scene underwear? Is there still a place in my life for department store Guinness apparel or the likes of Looney Tunes knit gloves?
For the purpose of preserving my integrity as a lingering member of the non-pea coat owning societal subset, I have organized a short list of how to distract the tidily inclined from the perpetually T-shirted crowd’s style misfires. Whether for classy or more casual affairs, I’ve tried to narrow the field into three general non-nude instances.
First, in the event of a formal occasion ‘- examine the color contrast between any undershirt and shirt. I respect that you made the journey to 1996 Laconia Bike Week, but others who are unfamiliar with the concept and can read of your ‘Real Good Christ-Punching Time’ through the back of your chalk-white button-down might not be. Try a top that’s black, instead, or another that can cover the slogan with the embroidered likes of an animal that’s endangered or the subject of recently criminalized poaching.
Next, with regard to athletic endeavors, try not to assume that people are still appreciative of the humor spelled out across your And-1 tank top’s punch line. The faceless point guard’s insistence that ‘I’ma call your mother a chump over the payphone after I stuff her like a Thanksgiving turkey on Sunday which is God’s day like a clown, fool,’ were amusing before we knew what an antecedent was, but the subject of your desire on the elliptical will more likely strike up a conversation with the upward incline knob.
Finally, in preparation for relaxed, generalized social interaction, I’ve discovered that your pants should inhibit any conceivable mobility. If you can make it up a flight of stairs or more than a block down the street, they’re simply too loose. A night at the theater and a night in with take-out should all end up in across-the-board infertility. Anything short of this will ruin your trendy pretense and lose you the respect of your more sophisticated peers.
If there’s one thing we can learn from our time as a Newbury Street-adjacent populace, it’s that people won’t like you unless you look like you have money. But if you can fashion a paper clip into a necklace and convince the better part of a crowd that it’s from Istanbul, there’s hope for you yet.
