The likelihood that I will be called out as a fashion plate is less than slim. I’m comfortable with that, just as I’m comfortable in my unfashionable clothes. I have friends who would shudder if they were forced to wear my over-the-top-comfortable clothes, because they place greater value on appearance than I do. But it’s not just that; they’re just more comfortable with a pair of slacks and a nicely pressed shirt (or whatever) than they would be in my clean but rumpled shirt and shorts and flip-flops (or tennis shoes, for more formal affairs). And that’s fine; if they’re happy, I’m happy. Of course, I hope they are happy with my extreme casual style.
All of the aforementioned notwithstanding, on rare occasion I rather enjoy “dressing up.” There’s something about stylish casual clothes on the upper end of casual, just shy of formal, that I find appealing once in a very long while. And by long while, I’m talking annually or every other year, maybe once every three years.
The hypocrisy in this, of course, is that I find well-dressed people more attractive than people who dress the way I do. Then again, I’m not looking to be attractive to them, so I suppose it’s all right, after all.
Some mornings, I ruminate about such mundane things, don’t I?
