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Until my late twenties, I was undeniably a poor dresser. In my
early teenage years, I favored cheap cotton sweaters with
knock-off Polo shirts peeking over the collar. This included a
bright green and cherry red combo, because every day is
Christmas. In my late teens, I went strictly with Levis,
t-shirts and big glasses and in college, I mixed in some
bandanas and gaudy shorts. When I hit the workforce, I
emphasized earth tones, which after a few washings became a blur
of different shades of pale. I desired to be stylish and
occasionally—but not too often—believed that I was. There were
at least a handful of outfits through the years that didn’t
offend, I think, I hope. The problem was that I had the
double-whammy problem of being frugal and a dork, which drove me
to shop at Mervyns and Marshalls, preferably in the clearance
racks.
I needed either a kindly older sister or a girlfriend to give me
vital fashion advice such as: $100 spent to upgrade the frames
for your glasses, in an effort to make you look like an Italian
model rather than a member of the Brain Bowl squad, will bring
you $1,000 of happiness. Or that you should pay to have your
hair cut once you reach high school and should take taunts about
high-water pants to heart. They may be mean spirited, but
they’re instructive.
Today, thanks to my wife, I likely am a competent dresser,
although I’ve wrongly thought that in the past, so I can’t say
it with complete conviction. Over the years, I learned some
painful fashion lessons that I’ll pass along, with the hopes
that they’ll help someone, somewhere. I aspire to persuade at
least one person to wear a flat-fronted pant or a well-tailored
suit, in favor of pleats and droopy sweaters. In the course of a
few essays, I plan to sketch out a number of my worst offenses,
explain where I went wrong and, in some cases, suggest
alternative apparel.
The first breakthrough in my slow ascent to fashion competency
came when I happened to accompany two female friends to the
local mall’s premier department store. They turned the tables
and forced me to try on full-priced clothes, insisting that I
purchase a beige, light-weight sweater that looked smashing,
and, I hoped, perhaps even ravishing.
I resolved to go shopping with female friends more often.
Eventually, I thought I might be able to compile a stylish
wardrobe that, in turn, could lead to a girlfriend, which—among
other things—would outfit me with a fashion consultant, provided
this theoretical girlfriend didn’t favor culottes.
Unfortunately, this lesson clashed with my thriftiness. For one,
I refused to consider taking anything other than my blazer and
dress pants (pleated) to the dry cleaners, since dry cleaning
eventually turns a ravishing $30 sweater into a $100 sweater. As
a result, my few decent clothes faded and stretched their way to
shabbiness after a few trips through the spin cycle.
I hit on a new plan after hearing my friend Geoff compliment a
shirt that Harry Connick, Jr. wore during an interview. Geoff
was one of the few friends I’d ever had who put thought into his
daily outfits, so I respected his opinion more than my own.
Harry Connick, Jr. made excellent use of what I saw as a
standard white dress shirt, but Geoff pointed out that the
fabric looked soft, luxuriant and you could bet every woman in
the audience wanted to touch it, and not just because it was on
Harry. It caressed his body. You could almost see the Victoria’s
Secret model clutch it, unbutton it and eventually borrow it.
The collar stood above it all, a smooth curve that gave the
shirt structure, announcing, “This is a very expensive shirt.”
I decided to get out my white dress shirts to see why they never
had inspired an attractive stranger to begin kneading my
shoulders. One shirt—given to me in high school when I was
smaller—was taut and constricting. It made me feel
uncomfortable, which, for some reason, caused me to spend a lot
of time rubbing my palms together nervously when I wore it.
Also, I invariably left only the top button undone. I’ve been
told that this, combined with the tautness of the fabric, gave
the impression that I didn’t like to be touched. Where Harry’s
shirt spoke of caressing, clutching and undressing, mine
occasionally sparked the question, “Are you Mormon?” The other
white shirt in my wardrobe fit better, but repeated washing had
turned it dingy and threadbare.
A cursory investigation into sexy white dress shirts suggested
that they cost well over half of my weekly income, so I searched
for other celebrities to give me fashion inspiration—examples
that I could adjust to my Marshall’s budget. The breakthrough
came when—due to a botched date—I went alone to see Meg Ryan and
Andy Garcia yell at each other in When a Man Loves a Woman.
Since I was there, I figured that I could scrutinize Andy
Garcia’s wardrobe for advice. I’m not as hairy as Andy Garcia
and he’s got a slightly darker complexion, but I figured he
would be a decent fashion role model. It’s a shame I wasn’t
watching Mambo Kings because his look in that
movie might have been worth striving for, but I suppose I would
have ignored the flashy suits anyway because I was looking for
something to go with jeans and a t-shirt. Indeed, I found it—Mr.
Garcia’s blue sweater vest. Brilliant.
When I began shopping for sweater vests—that phrase makes me
want to cry—I immediately hit the woven acrylic jackpot. My
first purchase at Marshalls was dark grey with lines of light
grey and red geometric patterns, with banding at the shoulder
and waist. I knew it wasn’t ideal, but it was the only one they
had and I was too keen to use common sense. I was very
disappointed when I got home and found that the vest was tight
and very, very long, so that it either wrapped fully around my
bottom or bunched up into a round lump around my waist. By the
way, I’m pretty sure Darryl Hannah once wore a similar sweater
as a mini-dress.
I tried again at Mervyns and struck (fool’s) gold when I bought
two loose, roughly woven vests that seemed like only a slightly
cheaper version of Mr. Garcia’s. Both were midnight blue and one
had burgundy and flax-colored horizontal stripes down the front.
Next, I needed t-shirts to wear with the sweater vests.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t paid much attention to Mr. Garcia’s
shirt, but somewhere I picked up the notion that large sleeves
were stylish. Not long sleeves, mind you, but large short
sleeves. This rung true because I’d long been adverse to short,
tight sleeves that show off biceps, particularly if the wearer
has spent a lot of time rolling the sleeves evenly. I avoided
tight short sleeves for the same reason that I didn’t wear hair
product. I didn’t want to be a pretty boy. Well, I succeeded.
It didn’t take me long to find a bundle of big-sleeved tees in
the Mervyns clearance rack. When I came across blue and burgundy
shirts that were very close to the colors of the vests, I knew I
had to buy them. (It would be years until I learned that
dressing is not like horseshoes.)
In the fitting room, I did feel a little uneasy at the size of
the sleeves, which looked like elephant ears sticking out of the
sweater vest holes, but the color and the price—less that $15
for three—were too good to pass up. The lesson that I should
have learned at this juncture—other than to never wear sweater
vests—was that when something looks terrible in the store, it
won’t look any better at home.
Looking at pictures taken of me over the next couple of years, I
can’t decide which is more embarrassing, the sweaters or the
shirts. One could argue that it’s the shirts because I wore them
more often, since the vests only came out for special occasions.
That these special occasions included dates still makes me
shudder. I can explain away the shirts, even pretend that they
were borrowed or used to change oil, but the mere act of putting
on a sweater vest, well, let me put it this way: My wife’s
response when she saw a picture of me in a vest was, “Oh my God,
I’m so embarrassed for you!”
I’d like to sum up my series of poor decisions to illustrate how
bad dressing is not inevitable. I wanted to dress better, so I
searched for a role model. I chose Andy Garcia in When a Man
Loves a Woman. Out of all of the outfits that he wore, I
glommed on to his sweater vest. I purchased three sweater vests
at Marshalls and Mervyns and accessorized with t-shirts that had
oversized sleeves. I wore these in public. If I’d stopped before
this final step, everything would have been fine.
Please throw out your embarrassing clothing, if not for your own
sake, at least for the sake of those you love. Of course, if
they’re truly loved ones, they’ve already thrown it out for you.
Copyright Jeff Lewis, 2004. |
The colors of my shirt and pants should be reserved for
bathmats.
With repeated washing a once sexy
sweater sags, suggesting fat wrists.
If I were standing, you would see
the vest clinging to my hips and
bottom. Notice how the shirt,
vest and hukkah almost match.
I must apologize to
my fellow Americans
for wearing this outfit
out of the country.
This gives you a taste of the size
of my sleeves. My brothers
continue to be ashamed of me.
If you look closely, you
can see where the sun
has faded the areas of
the t-shirt that were
not covered by sweater
vests. The vests also
left their mark on my soul.
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