Fashion victim
There is one particular fashion crime that is sweeping across every nation. Style arbiters shudder and design capitals of the world weep at the mere thought of it. It’s despicable and disgusting, yet millions of people follow this sartorial dictum.
And, no one is immune.
**
Due to the heat generated by the sun and sanding of some wood, I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of ratty shorts. On my feet are socks, so I don’t get them covered in dust. It’s not particularly stylish, but it’s the most effective way to eliminate fine, brown shavings from sticking to my bare soles.
No one can see what I look like, unless I have to go outside (which of course, I do) to put out the garbage. Realizing I don’t have a lot of time to change clothes, I slip on my sandals and run outside.
It’s not as if I’m walking the runway in Paris or Milan. And, if I was, I’m sure D&G would charge an arm and a leg for my look.
When I get back inside the house, I pause after closing the door. I look down at my sandals and socks. Terrible. What’s worse is that my socks are hiked up as far as they can go up my legs, leaving only a small gap of flesh between the socks and the shorts.
If it wasn’t for my posture, I’d look like an old man at the beach, sitting under an umbrella and reading the newspaper.
After countless years of giving people subtle suggestions on how to dress, I have officially become a 65-year-old fashion victim… or my father.
Update: Thank you for your words of concern. I'm still beyond any emotional reproach. If you hear about a homicidal rampage in the following days... uh, it wasn't me.
And, no one is immune.
**
Due to the heat generated by the sun and sanding of some wood, I’m wearing a t-shirt and a pair of ratty shorts. On my feet are socks, so I don’t get them covered in dust. It’s not particularly stylish, but it’s the most effective way to eliminate fine, brown shavings from sticking to my bare soles.
No one can see what I look like, unless I have to go outside (which of course, I do) to put out the garbage. Realizing I don’t have a lot of time to change clothes, I slip on my sandals and run outside.
It’s not as if I’m walking the runway in Paris or Milan. And, if I was, I’m sure D&G would charge an arm and a leg for my look.
When I get back inside the house, I pause after closing the door. I look down at my sandals and socks. Terrible. What’s worse is that my socks are hiked up as far as they can go up my legs, leaving only a small gap of flesh between the socks and the shorts.
If it wasn’t for my posture, I’d look like an old man at the beach, sitting under an umbrella and reading the newspaper.
After countless years of giving people subtle suggestions on how to dress, I have officially become a 65-year-old fashion victim… or my father.
Update: Thank you for your words of concern. I'm still beyond any emotional reproach. If you hear about a homicidal rampage in the following days... uh, it wasn't me.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
9 Comments:
I have an excuse for my fashion faux pas. I'm already a member of AARP.
NO! say it isnt so!
Why am I not surprised. I leave you alone for a few minutes, and look what you do ...
No. No. No. No. No.
Not OK.
Ahhhhhhhhh!
sure, sure
we know you went postal
Lemuel: That's your excuse?
Timmy: Sadly, it is.
Six: Hey! I was trying to emulate you!
Salem: I know it's not ok, and neither am I.
Liquid: Crimes of fashion, news at 11.
YJA: The horror? Maybe that should be my Hallowe'en costume for next year.
MR: Black socks can make a man go crazy, you know.
Fat is the new black.
Slippery slope once you go with socks and sandals. Saw someone at the gym today wearing white shorts to his knees and a pair of flip-flops. Notagoodlook.
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