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.

Still Waters Run Average

I cringe when I read the tale of what I wore yesterday. Will I ever learn from my mistakes? It's clear I should have just worn a high-waisted pant.

Juan's post got me to thinking in a very Carrie Bradshaw manner (fingertips lazily slapping my Apple keys as I loll in my UES one-bedroom, wearing a nightie made of tinkling bells and squatting against a Gucci bedpan). I was riveted by his fashion journey, sure! But one thing that really got my motor running was that deep-V. It triggers such vitriol, such a sour attitude from the masses on such a daily basis that I have to wonder: just Y does the deep-V N-spire such X-treme H8? It is a new classic piece, one that casually embodies that combination of secretary and barmaid that Juan and I strive for. Its chest-baring namesake functions as a helpful beacon: an arrow made of your own flesh, pointing meaningfully down to your girly bits as a reminder that you are a living, breathing creature, not just a mannequin wearing quirky blends of cotton.

In any case, that deep-V might have been able to help me out today, but I ignored its clarion call. I am currently on the subway wearing the closest thing to high-waisted that APC has ever seen, and am literally bursting at the seams, since their salespeople always caution you to buy your jeans 4 sizes too small because they apparently STRETCH OUT at some point. A relatively "professional" appointment today finds me in a decidedly conservative ensemble: a powder blue Steven Alan oxford (the dangerous territory of twenty-seven-year-old bankers who live in Murray Hill) rounds out the denims. Fringed bangs conceal the tenacious zits on my forehead and Wayfarers, hanging on the neck of my not-so-deep-V, say so much, but especially they say Zac Efron.

Catch you later today, when I tire of this mediocrity and return to my oaken wardrobe chest,

I wrote this at 9am (which is EXTREMELY early in the morning),

Max (follow our Twitter!)