Yesterday was a big day for WMU. To fit the occasion I felt it only right that I dress up for the part. An idea had been bouncing around in my mind for a while, wondering just how I would look if I tried to pull off a shirt/vest combination with nice pants and dress shoes. I set off on a mission. I had everything, the shoes, the socks, and the pants. All I really lacked was the button down shirt and the vest. I was thinking that monochromatic would be best, since white and black are always complimentary to each other and I don’t have to worry about color clashes. Many people who follow me on social media sites noticed that I was visiting a huge spate of retail establishments. I was searching for the perfect shirt and the perfect vest. The shirt was a cakewalk, I walked into Old Navy and found an acceptable formal-seeming white long sleeve button-down shirt on sale and took care of that angle. The vest was a wholly different matter. I stopped at TJ Maxx, Kohls, and eventually ended up at JC Penney’s. Each store save the last was a fool’s errand. When I got to Penneys I wandered my way towards formal menswear and saw a batch of vests on sale, but they only went up to a certain size. Anyone who has seen me knows that this winter I have morphed into a tubby bitch. As I wandered around I eventually got to one of the satellite counters and talked to the gentleman behind the formal menswear counter. He asked what size I was after and had the exact vest. It had everything I was looking for. It was a simple vest with fake pockets and it was half off on sale. I bought it, thanked him and with a sense of reward I beat a hasty retreat back home.

Then it hit me that now that I had all the pieces I didn’t really know where they all were. I knew I had dress pants, but not where. I knew I had shoes, but again not where. I never wear formal attire, my personal life is all about comfort and if people don’t like my clothing selections when I’m in my home they are free to leave. I also knew at least academically that at one point I had a steam iron. I started to assemble my outfit and found socks, pants, the shoes and with a lot of searching and cussing and swearing I discovered where the steam iron went off to. I lined everything up. The pants didn’t require ironing, neither did the vest. The shirt was a lamentable mess however and that did require some ironing. At that point it was 2:30am and showtime was later that day at 7:00am, so chop chop! I got my shirt ironed, I shaved, I trimmed what little hair I have left into a neat buzz and hit the hay.

The next morning I hopped out of bed, got fully awoken and started to get dressed. Everything went well and I was rather self-satisfied with how the bright white shirt contrasted against the black of the vest. Everything was going swimmingly until I put on those shoes. Now these shoes were the only formal black shoes that I own. Everything else is either brown, sneakers, boots, or gardening shoes. I slipped them on and discovered why they were buried in the bottom of a closet for years – they were an example of top-notch awfulness. Every step was annoying, this annoying eventually blossomed into sheer bolts of pain. Each step was an exploration of footwear hell. I started to question the sanity of anyone who would dare wear such footwear and that shoes like these are responsible for all the miserable wretched people out there. Of course, my day was only just beginning at 7am. Annoyance became pain after lunch, every step a breathtaking exploration in agony. After I got home I took off the blasted things and threw them in a corner “Blair Witch” style to quietly contemplate the reasons why I shouldn’t pitch them into a bonfire.

Ever since the event concluded I’ve been aching. The damn shoes gave me dual shin-splints. Even when I’m wearing great shoes now the pain lingers as my shins declare me to be an enemy of the body and enjoy reminding me that I am a prisoner to their merest hint of pain as I walk looking like I’m crossing a bed of hot coals.

Despite the shoes the rest of the outfit worked far better than my wildest dreams. Everyone, initially coworkers and eventually friends and family were utterly shocked to witness what I had done to myself. The two biggest comments were “WOW!” and “Man, don’t you clean up well!”. Apparently I’m just a Morlock Ragamuffin all the other days of my life. That’s actually fine. Morlocks know where the pipes go and which one steam-cooks the Eloi. I have to admit that the dress shirt and vest combination, with the stark contrast of black-on-white really looks quite good. The whole time I was shopping for the vest I was making little “come here” noises in department stores and trying to convince the normally retiring and nocturnal formal wear vest to come out of hiding and that it really was 1875 and not 2011. It’s a look that I have to be careful to not make a ‘thing’ all the time, because that’s tacky as hell.

So I raise my imaginary glass to the fine art of dressing oneself in one of the purest forms of anachronism. What works in 1875 certainly works in 2011. Hooray!