I’ve worn the same black, white and grey flannel shirt off and on the past four days and the paparazzi have yet to notice.
My wife, I’m sure, notices but on the long, sorry list of annoying things about being married to me it’s not worth a mention.
Her expressing dissatisfaction about my wardrobe redundancy would be akin to the old Arab proverb about complaint priority:
“Swallows camels. Chokes on fleas.”
The kids don’t care. Neither do the guys at the bar.
Me, I care least of all.
I daily change the t-shirt beneath to give my manly musk a chance to refresh, but unless I inadvertently squirt weenie mustard on the front I see no reason to add to the laundry pile by changing the flannel shell.
We’re — cross your fingers — nearing the end of the most drab season for my wardrobe.
Given my meager income and even less ample motivation, it’s nearly impossible for me to construct a nice appearance from about November through April.
My reasons are perfectly practical. I don’t look at any winter garment and wonder if it’ll add stylish luster to my appearance.
No, all I care about is if will keep me warm.
That’s what flannel does better than nearly every other fabric and flannel doesn’t come in pastel. So I have about five reliably ratty flannel shirts and look like I could at any moment spring right off my bar stool and begin to gut a deer.
Lots of people say I look like a lumberjack. I take it as a compliment.
I probably should have been a lumberjack. Or maybe a lumberchris. I love being in the woods running a chainsaw, surrounded by the smell and spray of sawdust, and I especially love the soulful relief you feel when you realize you’re done and your useful limbs are all still attached.
What would be great is if I became so renown for my flannel that lumberjacks would begin to insult one another by saying so-and-so looks like a blogger.
I’d think thems would be fighting words.
I have about four shaggy sweaters and some pullovers, all which I disdain. Val likes them and usually buys me one or two for Christmas or my February birthday. But I’m not a fan of pulling anything over my head.
The reason for that is all that crackling static electricity.
I pull something over my head and — POP! — my hairs all immediately Einstein. So I look like a genius, but am still at liberty to act like an ass.
My winter ware is in direct opposition to my summer outfits. In the summer season, I’m a splendid dandy. I have colorful golf shirts, leisure prints and more than a dozen Tommy Bahamas that make me look and feel great.
Ah, summer, sipping pina colada in the sunset at someplace like Mallory Square in Key West (above).
Right now, with everything all drab and grey outside my winter window, it all still seems thousand years away, as does even baseball’s April 5 Opening Day.
Sure, I could brighten up with brilliant dashes of clothed color, which would be in keeping with the theme of my manifesto (crayon-signed copies available through my website for just $10!).
But that wouldn’t seem right.
I feel obliged to give winter its due. Let Mother Nature revel in winter’s mighty miseries. This dreariness can’t endure forever.
How about this?
I’ll begin adding cheerful color to my wardrobe as soon as Mother Nature does the same to hers.
Until then, I’ve got Spring Fever with a touch of the Flannel Flu.
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