Changing four times before leaving the house.
Aargh.
So I'm in the shower, right, calculating Riemann sums and forming a unified theory of society, religion and politics, when more urgent matters suddenly intruded upon my thoughts. Time was running out! I had shampooed, soaped & scrubbed all but one lonely lower left leg, so I had only maybe a minute to make a decision that would affect every moment for the next twelve hours. I needed to confidently exit the shower and continue my day with a purpose, rather than shuffling and pacing nervously around the house, fraught with indecision. The fate of my world rested on the answer to just one question:
What, in the name of all that is holy, should I wear today?
Under the cut is recorded, for science, a somewhat detailed rundown of the reasoning and thought (or lack thereof) that causes events as outwardly ridiculous as changing one perfectly good outfit for another.
So many factors to weigh! Obviously, it's cold. I mean it was flurrying last night, fer chrissake. And by gum, it's not only chilly, but windy too, and that means... wind chill. Yes, definitely cold, and definitely sweater weather. Layers would also do the trick, but putting together a functional outfit from so many disparate elements, ensuring complementary colors, fabrics, and cuts, without creating too much unseemly bulk, is not a task to be lightly undertaken in the mental haze of early morning.
The problem is that that unlike in my formative years, when I spent considerable time outside, walking to school, running late to class, or standing in line for concerts in small bars wearing small clothing so as not to have an unwieldy coat to worry about once inside, weather matters very little these days. Now, I just dash from my front door to my car, and from my car to the office door, then reverse the procedure in the afternoon. The climate at work is the same year-round, with the thermostat and fan set to sub-arctic gale. Winter, at least, gives me an excuse to dress for the weather indoors.
So, a sweater, then. But which one? Well, luckily I was feeling rather strongly V-necky rather than turtlenecky, even though I had worn a lovely lilac V-neck just yesterday. Contributing factors to this feeling included slight hunger, the state of it being Friday, and a general desire for less restriction about the neck, probably due subconscious reactions to hormonal fluxuation. In addition, the winner also had to go well with not-jeans, since I had just worn jeans with the aforementioned yestersweater. I conjured up a vision of the huge pile of sweaters in the dresser, only a fraction of which are suitable for wearing due to unresolvable conflicts with anything even close to current fashion (i.e., they're too damned short), and thought of some likely contenders.
I finally settled on a fuzzy wine-colored job that was perfect in that it was fuzzy, wine-colored, and I hadn't worn it since last winter. So far, so good. As for pants to go with it, well, there was no divine inspiration there. I suspected perhaps a tan color might be better than a grey or black, to avoid that whole restaurant-hostess/retail-clerk look. The lack of conviction made me uneasy, but it was the best idea I had.
With a plan in mind, I finished the post-shower routine and strode out of the bathroom to find my chosen prey. On went the fuzzy wine-colored sweater. On went the tan trousers. On went matching tan socks. On went a standard set of vaguely matching jewelry. And I sat in contemplation of whether to wear black shoes, or brown.
Well, I planned to wear a black coat, since the beige one was still in need of pre-season dry-cleaning. So black shoes, then. Excellent.
Dressed and ready, right? Not quite. As I stood in front of the mirror, I found that something didn't look right. The hem of the sweater fell to just the wrong place relative to the pants. And the color just wasn't pleasing, according to the day's admittedly rather arbitrary sense of aesthetics, based on a complex relationship between ambient lighting, posture, and the sloppy way in which I tossed the clothes on. But no amount of tugging or straightening would help matters; the outfit was, in my eyes, beyond redemption. The sweater was nice. The pants had to go.
So despite any misgivings about mimicking hostesses, I grabbed some charcoal-grey pants and tested them out. The mirror reported that though they weren't great, they were still far better than the previous models, and certainly the best that could be accomplished with the given sweater, with whose fuzziness I was far too pleased to change.
I did all of this fully realizing that next time, given the same sweater, it may be the grey pants that are offensive, and the tan ones that save the day.
With a sigh of resignation, I put my black shoes on and headed out.
It wasn't until I got to work that I noticed something awful. Terrible. A hideous faux pas that is causing me unspeakable embarrassment.
When I swapped the tan pants for grey, I forgot to change my socks.
And that is why today, I am wearing black shoes, tan socks, and charcoal grey pants.
It's mortifying. I hope no one notices.
So I'm in the shower, right, calculating Riemann sums and forming a unified theory of society, religion and politics, when more urgent matters suddenly intruded upon my thoughts. Time was running out! I had shampooed, soaped & scrubbed all but one lonely lower left leg, so I had only maybe a minute to make a decision that would affect every moment for the next twelve hours. I needed to confidently exit the shower and continue my day with a purpose, rather than shuffling and pacing nervously around the house, fraught with indecision. The fate of my world rested on the answer to just one question:
What, in the name of all that is holy, should I wear today?
Under the cut is recorded, for science, a somewhat detailed rundown of the reasoning and thought (or lack thereof) that causes events as outwardly ridiculous as changing one perfectly good outfit for another.
So many factors to weigh! Obviously, it's cold. I mean it was flurrying last night, fer chrissake. And by gum, it's not only chilly, but windy too, and that means... wind chill. Yes, definitely cold, and definitely sweater weather. Layers would also do the trick, but putting together a functional outfit from so many disparate elements, ensuring complementary colors, fabrics, and cuts, without creating too much unseemly bulk, is not a task to be lightly undertaken in the mental haze of early morning.
The problem is that that unlike in my formative years, when I spent considerable time outside, walking to school, running late to class, or standing in line for concerts in small bars wearing small clothing so as not to have an unwieldy coat to worry about once inside, weather matters very little these days. Now, I just dash from my front door to my car, and from my car to the office door, then reverse the procedure in the afternoon. The climate at work is the same year-round, with the thermostat and fan set to sub-arctic gale. Winter, at least, gives me an excuse to dress for the weather indoors.
So, a sweater, then. But which one? Well, luckily I was feeling rather strongly V-necky rather than turtlenecky, even though I had worn a lovely lilac V-neck just yesterday. Contributing factors to this feeling included slight hunger, the state of it being Friday, and a general desire for less restriction about the neck, probably due subconscious reactions to hormonal fluxuation. In addition, the winner also had to go well with not-jeans, since I had just worn jeans with the aforementioned yestersweater. I conjured up a vision of the huge pile of sweaters in the dresser, only a fraction of which are suitable for wearing due to unresolvable conflicts with anything even close to current fashion (i.e., they're too damned short), and thought of some likely contenders.
I finally settled on a fuzzy wine-colored job that was perfect in that it was fuzzy, wine-colored, and I hadn't worn it since last winter. So far, so good. As for pants to go with it, well, there was no divine inspiration there. I suspected perhaps a tan color might be better than a grey or black, to avoid that whole restaurant-hostess/retail-clerk look. The lack of conviction made me uneasy, but it was the best idea I had.
With a plan in mind, I finished the post-shower routine and strode out of the bathroom to find my chosen prey. On went the fuzzy wine-colored sweater. On went the tan trousers. On went matching tan socks. On went a standard set of vaguely matching jewelry. And I sat in contemplation of whether to wear black shoes, or brown.
Well, I planned to wear a black coat, since the beige one was still in need of pre-season dry-cleaning. So black shoes, then. Excellent.
Dressed and ready, right? Not quite. As I stood in front of the mirror, I found that something didn't look right. The hem of the sweater fell to just the wrong place relative to the pants. And the color just wasn't pleasing, according to the day's admittedly rather arbitrary sense of aesthetics, based on a complex relationship between ambient lighting, posture, and the sloppy way in which I tossed the clothes on. But no amount of tugging or straightening would help matters; the outfit was, in my eyes, beyond redemption. The sweater was nice. The pants had to go.
So despite any misgivings about mimicking hostesses, I grabbed some charcoal-grey pants and tested them out. The mirror reported that though they weren't great, they were still far better than the previous models, and certainly the best that could be accomplished with the given sweater, with whose fuzziness I was far too pleased to change.
I did all of this fully realizing that next time, given the same sweater, it may be the grey pants that are offensive, and the tan ones that save the day.
With a sigh of resignation, I put my black shoes on and headed out.
It wasn't until I got to work that I noticed something awful. Terrible. A hideous faux pas that is causing me unspeakable embarrassment.
When I swapped the tan pants for grey, I forgot to change my socks.
And that is why today, I am wearing black shoes, tan socks, and charcoal grey pants.
It's mortifying. I hope no one notices.