Fashion

 

One of the first times I went over to pick up Wendy for a date in our early courtship, I was feeling pretty good about how I looked.  I was in college and hadn’t begun to put on weight.  My hair wasn’t thinning and I had just received one of my confidence-building haircuts from my stylist, Traci, which meant I was only going to look and feel decent for another 48 hours.  The walk from my apartment door was short, but I felt so good about how I looked that I was concerned about being swarmed—zombie style—with women before I reached Wendy’s unit.

What about Wendy?  Would it be fair to subject her to such wild animal handsomeness and charm wrapped together in a dapper and elegantly robed male in the prime of his life?  Did I believe that I was coursing with enough stylish, machismo energy that she could possibly become pregnant just by looking at me?  Indeed, what would Wendy do when she opened her door?

She laughed…  Hard.

“Oh My!” Wendy exclaimed after letting out several large bursts of glee saturated air.  “Did you dress yourself tonight?”  She asked in a sing-song motherly tone that when spoken to a man in such a way implies sarcasm more concentrated than a tube of frozen orange juice.

During my fall, I had lost count of the number of pegs I had been knocked down by Wendy.  Apparently when falling that great of a distance, the human body tends to black out.

When the laughter ceased and Wendy realized I did not dress up to make her laugh on purpose, she became a little concerned.  I could tell that she was working something out in her head.  Was my clothing choice and sense of fashion going to be a deal-breaker?  I did not know, and what was worse, I thought that in my wardrobe, this outfit was THE BEST I could do for THE ONE girl I wanted to impress.

When she came to the realization that she was still interested in eating dinner with me, she marched my denim and denim ensemble down to my apartment to do a little turd polishing.  Unfortunately, while gazing upon the available threads in my closet, the task wasn’t easy.  Wendy is brilliant and loves a good puzzle; but as she tried to put together an acceptable outfit for her life-sized Cabbage Patch doll, she was shaking her head and sighing as if she was faced with a three-dimensional sudoku puzzle.

My closet was a perfect storm of bland, baggy and benign.  Somehow I had managed to put together a collection of clothes from different eras, color schemes and social occasions, none of which could be worn together in any combination.   Well, technically they COULD be worn together, but doing so would in the least case cause confusion and to the extreme, vomiting.

We did get close to an acceptable outfit that may have allowed us a chance to dine in public together, but ultimately the idea was scrubbed because the shirt was teal.  What I didn’t know then but do now is that the color teal only belongs on only two things:   tuxedo cummerbunds and nothing else.  So if you’re wearing teal right now, you may not understand the problem I’m trying to explain in this post, or you had better get back to your wedding/jazz choir/prom.

After an hour or so, I think Wendy and I just ordered pizza…  Wendy answered the door.

…

This has been a running issue through my life.  I simply do not understand fashion.  I’ve tried, but it seems every single time I find a style that works, it changes after a few years and then I’m stuck again.  Fashion rides a fast horse, and I always seem to be chasing it on a three-legged donkey.

Here’s a kind of evolution of the fashion cycle I appear to be in:

Phase One:  A designer cut shirt with diagonal stripes is all the rage in New York, Milan, Paris and Tokyo.  Every clothing company mimics the fashion and variations on the style hit the streets in a month.  At this point I am about 9 months from the first time I notice the appearance of the style or hear what it is called.  I immediately wonder how those models that wear the shirts think they can “pull it off”.

Phase Two:  18 months after the shirt style hits, all of my friends are sporting it and it looks good.  I still don’t believe that I have the body type or confidence to “pull it off” though.

Phase Three:  36 months after the design has been available to the general public, the shirts appear at Target on a clearance rack.  Since they are now priced at 3 shirts for $25, I figure I’ll take the risk, finally feeling the confidence that if everyone else can wear it, maybe I can in fact “pull it off” as well.

Phase Four:  36 months and one day after the design has been available, I put the shirt on to impress my wife as we get ready to go to a social event together.   “Pull it off,” she says, “nobody wears that anymore.”

I know what you’re thinking.  “Wow, how has he gotten through life like this?”  I wish I could give you the definite answer to that.  The truth is, I may never understand.  There is one point in my life where I could see my sense of fashion getting derailed.

When I was ten or eleven, parachute pants were all the rage.  Not the pants that MC Hammer wore in the 1990’s either, but the Early 1980’s style of parachute fabric stitched together with a dozen pockets and unnecessary zippers everywhere.  They were expensive and a luxury to my family and I waited impatiently to receive them.  I immediately wore them to the skating rink, fell and put a hole in the knee, proving that I could not be trusted with synthetic clothing.  I believe this disappointment led me down the chosen path of function over form.

I did not like clothing with large designer labels emblazoned upon them for all to see.  For one thing, I thought it was ridiculous that these clothes were so much more expensive than the ones without the labels.  I thought that people were actually paying more to advertise the clothes they were wearing.  The way I saw it, if I was going to wear those clothes and everyone was going to be reminded of the brand, they should be paying me to wear it.  That’s the way I felt then.

These days I can understand why a company would want me to pay a whole lot more to allow me to wear their name.  The way I look when I wear designer clothes, could be a pretty big risk the companies are taking.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if people like me (fashionably unpleasant) are taken into consideration by the marketing finance people when pricing items across the data of who is going to wear the clothes.  Having me tromp around town wearing a mismatched ensemble including your brand, is going to keep people from wanting to purchase your clothes.  It will require a financial adjustment to recover any losses sustained in the areas of the country I am seen in your clothing line.

For example:  Let’s look at what goes into the pricing of a Ralph Lauren T-Shirt for $29.

(Extremely rough and uninformed estimates)

After sweatshop cost of material and shipping from the 3^rd world:   $1 per shirt

Add the Ralph Lauren name and profit:  $15 per shirt.  (total = $16)

Steve Damm may purchase and wear one in public: $6 per shirt.  (total = $22)

Retail markup: $7 per shirt.  (total = $29)

 

It isn’t as silly as it sounds.  The 4^th quarter earnings report for The GAP was much better in the years before word got out that my sister buys me a sweater from there for a Christmas present.  It isn’t her fault that I wear them inappropriately.  She just wants me to have something warm and harmless.  I still manage to mess it up though.

And it isn’t just what I’m wearing either, it’s HOW I wear it.  Pants pulled up, or riding down?  I guess that one wrong every time.  Shirt tucked in, or pulled out?  I need a shirt UNDER this shirt? What color?   It needs to be a “v” neck?  What’s a “v” neck?   Why not a crew neck, at least it would match my socks?  Are there “v” socks?  How far do I button up the shirt?  That seems a little revealing, can’t I do one more button?  Why can’t I do one more button?  What about the collar?  I thought the collar up was “in”.  Not for me, it isn’t?  Should I roll up my pants?  Because they are too long.  I thought I was taller.  No, I didn’t try them on at the store.  My other pants are in the washer.  YES, I only have two pairs.  Who am I even talking to in this paragraph?

Another big piece of this fashion puzzle is how I value clothes in my life.  I seem to believe that for just about anything else, spending the extra money is worth every single penny but when it comes to purchasing clothes, the cheapest clothes that have not been worn by others are the only way to go.   I’ll think nothing of dropping fifty bucks on a rare comic book or the last hand dipped corndog at the fair, but when it comes to a shirt, nine dollars is about my comfort zone.  I might go twelve on a sweater, because of the sleeves.

The shirt, or top as I will never call it, must only display the images of items or people that have my seal of approval or none at all.  Printed T-shirts with comic logos or characters are fine, but only the ones that I like.  Captain America gets tons of play in my wardrobe, while the Flash’s logo, though iconic, makes no appearance in my closet or hamper (unless it happens to be on a shirt with other Justice League members).  Stripes and plaid are fine, but there should be little clue as to who manufactured the clothing.  Baseball sleeves are my favorite though.  Multiple colors and plenty of space on the front for my own stupid musings fill me with joy.  They’re also cheap and last a long time.

Pants, I’m a little less frugal with.  I’ll do ten bucks a leg, but any amount after that and I expect to get no less than ten years or 2000 wears out of them.  And pockets, oh how I love pockets.  Cargo pants can’t have enough pockets in them and those pockets cannot be deep enough.  My wife complains about how bulky they look on me after I’ve filled those pockets with the essentials.  She complains until we’re out somewhere and someone desperately needs an aspirin, diving mask or garlic press and I whip one out of the old cargo pants/shorts to the awe of everyone but my wife.

Shopping for my clothes is even sadder than the clothing choices themselves.   My first choice for clothes shopping is Costco.  I can get entire outfits at Costco from shirts to shoes, khaki slacks and cargo shorts (naturally), undies and socks all for super cheap and I’m not expected to try anything on in a creepy little dressing room.

Seriously, how does anyone feel comfortable disrobing in a dirty little nudity box where any number of bare-asses have sat on the bench while trying on swimwear while strange children peek under at you and aggressive sales people try to hand you crap you don’t want to wear through the door?  There are pins in the floor, there are cameras everywhere and not a sanitizing station to be found.

I’ll shop at Ross.  However, the chances are pretty good that whatever you’re buying, has been on the floor of that store for hours at a time.  Apparently centuries ago a custom began at the very first Ross, Dress for Less store, where if you pick an article of clothing off the rack to look at it, you either choose to purchase the item or you simply drop it on the floor.  Never mind that the hanger is still attached and the rack where the clothing came from is a staggering fourteen inches away.  At Ross, the proper etiquette is to simply release the clothing from your hand, let it fall to the floor and then run over it several times with your three-wheeled shopping cart.

Target?  Clearance rack only.  I’m not made of money.

So by now, you are getting a pretty clear picture of my fashion predicament.  I dress like a color-blind five year old.  I’m thankful that my wife isn’t cruel about my choice of clothes.  Like the children she taught in special education, I get lots of redirection and rewarded for making good clothing choices.  She has an overflowing reservoir of patience when it comes to helping me put together combinations that are socially acceptable.

She has directed me to stick with black, as I will have a harder time mismatching that color with itself.  This is hard for me because I love color.  I love orange, but Wendy has sat me down with a cup of hot chocolate and delicately explained that no matter how much I love orange, that the feeling from orange about me is not mutual.  Orange has just been using me as a fool.

Black is the first step, which means also, no white socks with black pants and shoes.  I informed my wife that it worked for Michael Jackson on his “Off The Wall” album cover.  Wendy reminded me that it was not 1979 and I am no Michael Jackson.  I’m not even Tito.

Then I thought, “I can do this.”  I can wear black with confidence then maybe work in some slick fitted shirts and pants that don’t look like I spent an afternoon at Denmark Pond.  Black worked for Johnny Cash for the same reason it will work for me.  He had a hard time with clothes too.  If black is good enough for Johnny Cash, it’s good enough for me, and that’s the Damm truth.