So I promised you yesterday that I'd bring more fashion to your attention, so I begin with this:
I want to eat this boy alive. See that dark alley behind him? I’m waiting there, in the shadows, teeth bared, like a vampire. Those shoes! Just after this photo was taken, I jumped his beautiful bones and left him dizzy and clutching his neck in the shadows of the grand archway to a Florentine courtyard.
This vision of masculine beauty is brought to you by The Sartorialist, the number 9, and the letter F.
Seriously. I want to devour him, like I just devoured the best dinner in MONTHS at Gordon Ramsay at the London. Weezer Monkey needs to go there and take lots of pretty pictures. It's not for me to blog on, but it was for me to devour with lots of good wine...
But before we get to the conversation, you must be let in on its particulars. I have been getting in touch with my shadow self lately, only my shadow self, as you can probably tell from my website, isn't dark and brooding, since that's my everyday self. No! My shadow self is happy, glorious, and radiant, and I'm trying to let HIM out more often. I did so today. Naturally, it manifested in my clothes. To wit:
So I hung my jacket on the inside door of the examination room, and when my doctor entered (he's handsome, but quite the Negative Nelly) he exclaimed, "WHAT is that!?!" There was no fun in his voice. Now, I have some history with this doctor, as I--admitedly--teased him about his shoes on our first visit. He was bragging, and I felt the need to put him in his place. I assure you, dear Reader, that I did it in good fun, and with appropriate grace. I think, however, that he's still trying to reclaim his nuts after that. Alas for him.
At any rate, fashion is a conversation, as my colleague knows ("Where are you saying you're from today, and what does it say?") and as The Sartorialist knows with his gorgeous purple-shoed vamp-snack at the top of this post. What are purple shoes if not the opportunity to discourse on cause and effect? What is a white sport coat (linen, natch) if not the chance to feel a little daring in one's office--suddenly transformed into a yacht, or a speedboat? It's the chance to share with you what I did today, and why. Perhaps to look a little foolish, but also to be glad for the chance to look foolish. The ability to be oneself is a powerful statement, and clothes are such a unique way to express our individuality. Yes, they invite comment, but in their best moments, they bring us together to discourse.
And like any conversation, we can choose to take part, or we can choose to remain silent. There is dignity in both. The only hazard is in the uneducated criticism. I chose to educate my poor doctor friend (I find my patience with MDs rather thin these days) on the power of the white sportcoat, and what it meant for me: the closing this morning of a large transaction for my employer, the effort that went into it, the drama of the closing of the deal by phone before I left my home this morning--all before 8am. If there was ever a day to wear white, it was today, I explained. My comfort and rationality confused him, and he shifted to complaining how he needed a vacation himself, and then complained about Peru. There's no accounting for people.
I can only imagine what he'd have to say about the purple shoes. I--for one--adore them, and wish I could ask the guy in the picture what it meant to him to wear them. Freedom, I hope, and a bit of joy. I have a sportcoat he could borrow...