Several years ago, I had the sublime anthropological pleasure of watching a close friend of mine prepare for the first time he was going to meet a girl. To this day we still argue about how long it took him to prepare. He suggests that the period of time took under two hours.
I suggest that human concepts of time are wholly inadequate when it comes to describing exactly how long his preparations took him. It was obscene. After weathering several hours of mockery from me, he emerged from the bathroom and asked me to feel his face. He wanted me to feel how effective his exfoliating and degreasing methods had been, in an effort to prove the purity of his technique.
I, politely, questioned his sexual orientation. He hrumphed and went back to his eons long beauty routine. In the intrest of fairness, he has managed to gain the attention, orifiaces, and undergarments of some of the most gorgeous and radiant girls I’ve ever laid eyes on…so I suppose I have to concede he was on to something.
Also, as I have started dating in earnest and have developed a preparation regime of my own? I conclude that he was merely enacting a ritual set of behaviors that diffuse nervousness and paranoia, replacing them with a vestige of faux confidence.
I still have no idea why he had me touch his face though.
So I finally managed to purchase a vest that fits me.
I have no idea why vests don’t fit me often. I mean, I know that I am a bit of a fat ass….but all the other fat asses I know like vests too. It would seem my people would be the target demographic.
They are the masculine version of a corset; a garment which somehow modifies extra pounds and turns them into something that the target audience might find more appealing. Vests produce dapper gentility, where as a corset is a breast amplification device without equal.
Both are part of steampunk fashion…lest anyone question why I am pursuing such a thing.
In either case, I rarely feel seductive. Once in a great blue moon I’ll feel clever or handsome…never both at the same time. Never anything more. Well, I tried on the vest as part of putting together a dating ensemble I was intending to use for a date the following evening.
Dear god! I am not a man of great ego or confidence, but I felt unstoppable in some subtle way. I felt like I could have dick punched the pope and gotten away with it. I felt like I could melt knees with the powers of my mind. I actually felt like I could walk the walk and talk the talk.
So yeah…anyone needs a gift idea between now eternity. VESTS, MOTHERFUCKER!
So now, I had my awesome vest. Now, I needed awesome vest maintenance. So I needed an iron and an ironing board.
Okay, so you know how you can see something so often that you just think your house is full of it? I just had that happen to me. Up until tonight, I thought my house had literally infinite clothes irons. I could have sworn I had seen them everywhere. Then I go to look for one, and it’s as if the damn thing had become an endangered species. After an hour and a half of searching I found an old ironing board in the living room and a clothes iron in a closet.
I iron pretty decently for someone who has no fucking clue what he’s doing. I’d suspect that I did it wrong but my vest has no wrinkles or burn marks. So….go me?