You, Jerry, Are the Doofus.

Everyone has fashion hurdles to clear in their everyday life. Today, I glanced at my hurdles for a moment, then shrugged and took the 1 train instead. I completely ignored the button-down policy at my place of work and tucked a long-sleeved Pablo Picasso navy-and-cream-striped shirt into my high-waisted* navy ACNE shorts (whose legs I folded up subtly at the bottom to flatter my gams).

The Picasso shirt is from J. Peterman, that clothier whose verbose catalogues were lovingly skewered on "Seinfeld," where Elaine was a director at the company and introduced us to her Urban Sombrero. It's nice to wear items whose origins you can self-effacingly use as conversation starters. I have cute little anecdotes for most of my favorite pieces. For these shorts, for instance, all I have to do is mention the name of the designer. ACNE! Sick! (It is in fact an equally stupid acronym: Ambition to Create Novel Expressions. Bitch, please.)

I almost made a terrible mistake today. However, I fixed it up quick before I left the house. Here's the accidental fashion trauma waiting to happen:

And here I am after I performed some quick sartorial rhinoplasty:

Can you identify the surgical procedure I performed?  More importantly, do you know why I felt it absolutely necessary?

Hand in your answers at the end of class.

You know you love me (I hate Gossip Girl but it felt dramatically appropriate),

Max

*Now that you bring it up, I'm not altogether sure if the shorts are actually high-waisted or if I in fact just hoist them up so high that they appear so. In any case, my father thinks the look is really unattractive and the name of the blog still applies.