Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Jay Is A Piece of Tailor-Meat

Probably my least favorite place in the world is the Men's Wearhouse, the punnish men's clothing store where they turn you from a slob who can't dress himself into a slob who can't dress himself but is wearing a suit and, of course, sandals. I, for one, don't think about my appearance all that often. Because it depresses me. That's not to say that I don't have fashion goals — much to the contrary, having a bunch of innocuous gay friends and innocuous girly-girl friends in high school has left me with a quite clear impression of how I want to look: like the shy, sensitive guy from some California boy band. He writes poetry in his spare time and even when he's handing out autographs to a throng of screaming fans, you can see it in his eyes that you're the only one for him. He wants to go all the way with you, but only if you're comfortable and ready for it, and afterwards he wants to let you go tell your girlfriends and your vapid gay friends all about it.

I don't think they make clothes that'll turn me into that, though.

Instead, I go to the Men's Wearhouse, and there's always some little priss my age all decked out in a three-piece suit who's always too happy to help me. This is incredibly awkward, naturally, and I don't want this guy to realize that I don't know shit when it comes to business formal.

Me: I need to buy a sportsjacket.

Overdressed Salesguy: Okay, what are you matching it with?

Me: Mom, what am I matching it with?

And from that moment on, I was basically the Men's Wearhouse bitch. The salesman started bringing out these comically ridiculous suits, crap that only half-blind old men would be caught wearing. A navy and black herringbone number. A double-breasted white monstrosity. Maybe the salesman mistook me for Tom Wolfe. The salespeople would forcably put a suit on me, like a straitjacket, then they'd place me in front of a mirror and ask how I thought I looked. And I'm too polite to say, "Stupid." It's weird, because I have a team of "wardrobe specialists" hovering around me, tailors marking and pinning me up, salesguys wrapping measuring tapes around my stomach and my neck. This is what celebrities must feel like. It's totally uncomfortable.

Frankly, I'm considering becoming a nudist.