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?