I'm no clothes horse, more of a clothes donkey to be honest, but I do try to take pride in my personal appearance. Alas, I'm usually dissatisfied whenever I study my reflection in a full-length mirror. I wanted to look debonair but this would-be Beau Brummell turns out to be Bow-legged. In fact, what I thought was a sleek and smart parade of fashionable masculinity is actually just an unappealing heap of disheveled deadbeat.
The proportions are all wrong somehow. Time to summon my inner quick-change artist. I slip on a different shirt, swap out that sweater, kick off those stripy socks, pull on other pants, thread another belt around my waist and do my best to hide everything beneath a dark blue blazer. The mirror still denounces me as the absolute opposite of the fairest of them all. So what if I roll these sleeves up and tuck the shirt tails in tighter, unbutton a second or third button, taper those trousers, shorten the hem on everything and switch the pattern from polka dots to plaid or perhaps just plain?
But nothing I do streamlines my silhouette to an acceptable degree. I don't know. They are all conventional store-bought clothes in my correct size so why do I seem to be wearing clown shoes, jodhpurs, and an off-the-shoulder blouse? That might be fine for the nine-to-five in an Oriental harem but I don't think it's appropriate as business casual in the city. Nevertheless, I have to leave now or else I'll be late for work.
Of course, I'd easily still win the Best Dressed Award at my office, despite looking like Sinbad the Sailor after six years lost at sea. After all, most of my colleagues resemble vagrants who've just crawled out of a bed of nails and through a charitable clothing distribution center before arriving at their desks. Such are the disgraceful sartorial standards of the modern workplace that even a slipshod chap like me can be Cary Grant compared to his slovenly associates.
Comments