Customer: The Seattle Tuxedo
It has a mind of its own, a… life of its own. Dormant when worn, once set aside it will rise and whisper in the ear of its owner, in the mind of anyone within one hundred miles, “I am fashion. I am the glory. I… am the Seattle Tuxedo.”
Innocent, you say? Just jeans and a blazer you say?
You’ve never tried to wear black tie after one of them gets its denim and tweed, its open collar, on you, have you?
Oh, you poor, innocent sucker.
It seems magnificent after years of ties and cufflinks. Toe-pinching dress shoes and that one pair of black socks you can never find when you so desperately need it. The open collar. The relaxed waist. The professorially-chic undone buttons.
Be not fooled, friends. Do not fall prey to its madness.
There are times one should be formal. There are times one should look one’s best. There are times one should discard comfort for the persistence of attractive photographic memory, or to impress one’s significant other, or when one is eating minute meals from very shiny plates and drinking wine from crystal.
More than that, however. More than that…
The horror. I can hardly think on it, let alone set the words down in writing…
The Seattle Tuxedo it… if one basks too long in its sensual calm, one can be…
I can’t. I can’t…
But I must…
If one basks too long in its sensual calm, one can be induced to… to…
To don both socks and sandals simultaneously.
*shudder*
Give it what it wants. Give it anything it wants lest you wake one morning to find your feet forever encased in Birkenstocks and 100% organic, small-batch dyed, fairly-traded, woman-raised, horrifically-itchy but minutely carbon-foot printed wool.
That shit never comes off.
You will itch for all eternity.
You have been warned…
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