You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Dressing for success.
Did I do that today?
Who the hell knows. Perhaps if success is a circus medley of colorful streamers and jugglers tossing paint in a sky airbrushed by the sun, then yeah, maybe I dressed for success.
So I am standing in my closet, just out of the shower, dripping on the carpet. I am feeling electric, like a fashion fire drill is about to erupt.
I inhale and let the sartorial splendor wash over me.
Go bold today I think to myself.
I look at the white dress shirts.
I laugh out loud.
How many shades of white are there? White white? Whitish White? Kinda White? Off White? creamy White? egg shell White? white boy White?
Jeez. What am I, a politician?
I grab for a light blue dress shirt with a starched, crisp collar.
Light blue? It’s white except it’s darker and blue.
I ain’t doing anybody’s tax return today. I put the light blue back like an egg carton with yellow yolk staining the pack.
Suddenly I find myself pulling a purple dress shirt off the hanger. I am drawn to it, like a meteor being inhaled by the sun.
The shirt is singing like a black church choir excited about New Year’s day.
The shirt has a bright white collar and white cuffs French cuffs.
I put in two cuff links, black, trimmed in gold.
I look in the mirror.
Get down dog! Somewhere Snoop Dog is doing a celebratory bong hit.
Now you’re talking, boy. I’m looking part pimp, part color blind flim flam man.
Am I Ostentatious?
Does a sea otter eat abalone on its back?
I don’t even know what that means. But yes.
I button up the shirt. It looks sharp, like a shiny sequin on Liberace’s house coat.
If this was a poker game where gaudy fashion was the currency on the table, then I’m going all in.
Today I am an acid trip of fabric. I am a kaleidoscope of tailoring. I am a box of crayola crowns melting across a spectrum of individuality.
I feel crazy. I don’t care. I want to be so vibrant that people need to wear lead dental gowns to make sure they still can have kids.
I want to glow like 3 mile island. I want school buses to stop when they see me.
I reach for the brightest tie on the rack.
It’s from the Rush Limbaugh No Boundaries collection. It is brighter than a Miss America contestant. It has a blood spatter pattern that looks like it was worn by the victim of a Mafia hit.
Why am I wearing it?
Because I can. Because I have challenged myself. Because I have no fashion sense, because I am stupid, because I am at that point in my life when I could care less.
If you don’t go big , then go home.
I slide on checked trousers and a black belt.
Compared to the rest of my ensemble, the pants are a corpse.
RIP boring pants and belt.
Where are the John Daley slacks when you need them, right?
And the frosting on top?
Happy Socks.
That’s right, I said it, Happy socks.
They are red and white and blue.
They feel awesome, like America on a warm summer night.
I raise my pants leg and stare at my feet.
I burst out laughing.
My feet look like an old-fashioned barber pole.
My toes are surrounded by patriotic energy like some kind of irradiated licorice sticks with toes. I feel like I could be a game token dancing along a path on a Candy Land game board.
“I like your 4th of July socks,” one co-worker says as I sit down and my pants ride up.
“thanks,” i say wondering if she is being facetious.
“You look so….Ah…..bright today, Andy Cordan,” Another says.
I laugh.
Understatement. That’s like telling a Giraffe his neck is long.
As fate would have it, I find myself at a creek that has flooded.
WWLD?
What Would Liberace Do?
Well this is awkward. I’m dressed for the ballet. I’m dressed like a misguided giggilo.
Instead I’m about to wade into a swamp like the host of Dirtiest Jobs.
I maneuver to the water. I find the 76-year-old home owner who has complained to the city about constant flooding issues.
“You look sharp,” the former minister tells me.
“And I love those socks,” he adds with a smile.
He likes my socks. Nice. He musters the compliment after his neighbor’s house has slid off its foundation, floated down stream, tore up his fence and clogged the creek. All that drama in his life and he has the time to look down at my barber poles and give me a grandpa like thumbs up.
If the socks didn’t sell him, the fact that I get the city to pay for his mess, sure does.
He emails me: ” By the way, the high light of my interview were the color of the socks that you were wearing.”
On my way back to the station, I stop to get my mail at the post office.
A man exiting the building says “Hey nice shirt.”
“from the Pimp Daddy collection, I say with a I smile.
“You too.”
“Thanks,” he says.
I lied.
He is dressed in the so what fashion of who cares. A color from the drab collection purchased off a table with a big 1/2 off sign. He was dressed by a pedestrian pygmy.
I, on the other hand. feel like a high society model walking by a New York City construction site.
Whistle at me boys. I can take it. I want it.
I feel the sun beat down upon me. My purple is deep. My collar so white I could conduct mass.
It feels wondrous.
Bold is better.
Happy Socks people.
Remember, happy feet can lead you to a happy life.
Life’s Crazy™