May 1, 2003
Dressing the Gimp

Converse Chucks, god bless 'em.

FRIENDS, I think you'll all agree that while I am no prize-winner, I'm not a bad-looking guy, and while I'm no Sean P-Diddy Combs, I dress decently. Decently being defined as not naked or obviously soiled wigth my own waste-products. Sure, nothing matches, everything's wrinkled, and a lot of my clothing decisions date back to the first time I made them, which was when I was eleven years old, otherwise known as Emancipation Day, but that doesn't matter. On Emancipation Day, I rejected the clothing my Mother had laid out for me for school and chose my own ensemble. On that glorious day I mentally made up the basic rules of Jeff's Fashion Sense, and those rules haven't changed too much over the years. Sadly, however, despite my own deep, personal satisfaction with my fashion decisions, The Duchess--the woman to whom I've pledged my troth, whatever that is--frequently gives me The Look, which is a special facial expression reserved for those moments when she asks me What are you going to wear tonight? and I give the wrong answer, which is to say every time she asks me that question.

I'll freely stipulate that Jeff's Way of Fashion has very little to do with the generally accepted Ways of Fashion out there. I'll further stipulate that when I emerge from my dressing room into the public, most people would agree that I look goofy. The wonderful part about Jeff's Way of Fashion is that I don't care, because there is only one rule, really, in Jeff's Way: Be comfortable.

This rule distresses The Duchess, of course, because in order to be comfortable, I must eschew most of the other generally accepted rules of fashion, murky, indecipherable things concerning stripes and dark socks and colors that supposedly don't match other colors. My comfort often greatly distrubs The Duchess, as a matter of fact, leading to the aforementioned Look. Let's face it, spending more than a few seconds managing my ensemble every day falls squarely under the heading of More Shit I Gotta Do, and thus must be avoided. Who has time to ponder their clothes like that? I mean, all I have time for is establishing that I am, in fact, wearing clothing that won't get me arrested or beaten. Anything beyond that is just Too Much Effort, bubba, no matter what people think.

There are, of course, a few exceptions to this which I grant, Kinglike, to the Duchess on special occasions, like funerals, company events, The Duchess' family gatherings, and my own wedding. On these unusual occasions I magnaminously allow The Duchess to dress me, partly because it's just easier, soemtimes, to let life roll over you like a Mack truck named The Duchess, and partly because I do look better when she does so. I have a sheen, a hi-pro glow of sorts when The Duchess is done with me. This is great for official appearances where my exterior is as important as my interior. On the other hand, I am excruciatingly uncomfortable after this process, and spend the balance of my time wishing I could tear off the nice clothes, tousle my hair, and change into my beloved Conevrse Chucks, which the Duchess hates with a passion.

The point is, every second that I manage to avoid thinking about what clothes I'm wearing, or if they match, or if they haven't been laundered in a few weeks, is another second I can spend on more important things, which in general I define as anything, but in specific I mean writing. I waste an enormous amount of time doing absolutely nothing, and I have to make it up somehow, which usually means I cut out a generous amount of grooming tasks other people, including The Duchess, consider necessary. Whenever I am rushed, as a matter of fact, it can quickly become shocking how many grooming tasks I am willing to sacrifice in exchange for some slack in my schedule. The ten minutes I save by not even thinking about whether my shirt matches my pants is ten minutes I can later devote to working on a novel, or even this pissant little article.

No one understands, of course. I am resigned to that. Whether this makes me a great, misunderstood genius, or a badly-dressed idiot remains for history to decide. In the mean time, I'll be the guy wearing the flannel shirts and Chucks, you know: The powerful good-looking guy at the bar. If you want to tell me what you thought of this column, you know where to find me.

Jeff