January 24

Upon seeing an old college friend post an image of himself in full suit on social media yesterday, I’ve been pondering my lack of sartorial smartness. Back in the day, I tried harder than I do now, I confess; in large part, that was because of my age, and the world I moved in back then — and the fact that I was, in many ways, trying to keep up with said college friend, who was always impeccably stylish, even when he tried to do slovenly — but there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve left myself go, so to speak.

What I find myself struggling with is the idea of whether or not I care that I’ve let myself go. I mean, it’s not like I’ve entirely given up, and I still have my moments. More importantly, I work at home, and have far less reason to dress up than I once did. Maybe more to the point, I feel more comfortable now, and not just because I’m not wearing suit jackets that might’ve been a bit small for me but the price was right and I really wanted it, goddammit. I think of the line from the poem about growing old, growing old, and wearing tops of trousers rolled, and I wonder to myself, was that always about fashion and I didn’t realize it?

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