Due to a conspiracy in coincidence, it looks like I’ll be spending the rest of this week in a suit. Which sucks because I hate wearing a suit, but even worse, because I only have two suits, and they’re probably going to be pretty nasty after 4 days of continuous use.
Today I have an event for work that has me in a suit, tomorrow I have another work event that calls for the old suit and tie, then on Thursday I’m going down to Annapolis to argue about my tax assessment for my house and afterwards have to head to the viewing for my aunt, and Friday is the funeral. I’m hoping that my suit isn’t walking around by itself by then.
I guess if one of the suits gets a bit too ripe I can try and stuff myself into a third suit that I own that’s grown just a bit too small. Though I’m not sure what day would be best to be stuffed into the cotton/poly sausage-casing, since all of them require a full day of being in the suit. Sure, if I was just hanging around Glen Burnie I could wear the jacket, shirt, and tie like normal, and just put on some sweatpants and tennis shoes on the bottom.
You think I’m kidding, but that’s how you can tell when someone is about to get married around here. The groomsmen wear suit tops and pajama bottoms, and the bride has had tulle stapled to her nicest oversized t-shirt. It’s like a white trash pageant and I have a front row seat.
I’ve always hated wearing ties, and by extension really hated wearing suits, ever since I was forced to wear a tie in high school. I think I’ve blogged about it before, but for my entire freshman and sophomore year I wore the same tie every day. And for my entire junior year, I wore a different tie than the first two years, but I also wore it every day for the entire year. By the time senior year rolled around I had a horrible bitch of a girlfriend, but she had bought me a few more ties, so I was able to at least wear a different tie every day. I also came into some hideously ugly hand-me-down ties that I delighted in wearing to freak out the pretty-boys who wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Tommy Hilfiger.
But worse than all of that, I hate wearing blazers or sport coats. I fucking hate them. It makes me feel like a child molester dressed me. I realize that not everybody has a need to wear a suit on a semi-regular basis like I do, and I realize that the blazer is the perfect answer for them, but for me, it’s my least favorite piece of clothing. I’d rather be stuck in a suit, or even a tux all day, rather than having to wear a goddamned blazer. I hate everything about them. I hate the stupid gold buttons. I hate feel of the material. I hate how they never seem to fit right, no matter how much they cost, or even if they’ve been tailored. They make me feel like I should be growing a porno mustache and selling used Trans Ams in the parking lot of an abandoned fast food restaurant.
I really don’t give a shit about what people think of me, or how they think I dress. If they don’t like the fact that I’m wearing corduroys, an old tshirt, an old hoodie, and wool clogs, that’s awesome, because they can go shove a badger up their asses. However, when I get dressed up, I want to feel good about the way I look. I still don’t give a shit about anyone else, but I’ll be damned if when I dress up I don’t go all the way. It’s important to me to not half-ass the way I look in a suit. I’ll be a donkey in Tijuana before you catch me in fucking blazer.
