a sandwich sign and assless chaps

first of all, let's just talk about one thing: it's friday. the week went fast, a few good things happened, and, again, it's friday. it's going to be a good day.

i was on the train this morning and a woman got on who was very put together: perfect hair and makeup, sassy outfit, shoes that matched her handbag. did i just say handbag? yes i did. paging carson kressley. anyway, her look just says i spent some time on this, motherfuckers, and you all better notice. so i noticed. i mainly noticed, though, because it is eight-thirty in the morning. eight-thirty. to look like that, that early, means that she's gotten out of bed at probably 6am. because she's not just leaving her house at 8:30; she's already on a train in manhattan. it takes me over an hour to get to that point, and i'm a slob these days.

something about living in new york has had the opposite effect on my wardrobe that i thought it would. i assumed that when i moved here i'd have to really step it up a notch; you know, because there are all these hot-ass david barton gym faggots and celebrities running around everywhere. and i couldn't imagine myself in my ripped jeans and 8-year-old vintage polo. apparently, though, i was wrong. if anything, i've started caring less about my appearance. my friend perri, who works with me, tells me that he "rolls into his clothes." though i know that's just a figure of speech, i've spent several minutes over the course of a few weeks imagining what perri would look like rolling into clothes. i picture him dropping to his bedroom carpet, aiming for a laundry pile, and rolling around until his limbs have somehow found their way into arm- and leg-holes.

i feel to an extent like i've started rolling into my clothes. i wear the same pair of jeans to work every day for five days in a row. i pick a pair on monday; when i'm not wearing them (my apartment is hot and i immediately change into mesh shorts the instant i get home) they live at the foot of my bed. on saturday they go to the laundry and i pick a new pair for the week. in grad school, or even at hopkins, i wouldn't have done such a thing. nor would i have even considered wearing out of the house any of the hand-me-down, sometimes ill-fitting t-shirts i've been favoring lately.

it's not depression that's making me do this; it's not giving up on looking good. i think it's because there are just so many people here all doing their own thing, it's obvious that no one actually notices what you're wearing. sure, i still make an effort if i'm going out with friends or going to the gay bar, but even then i can't help but feel like everyone is so caught up in their own thing that it doesn't really matter what i'm wearing.

maybe i should really test this theory, really go to extremes. maybe i'll start doing things like wearing andre-from-project-runway-style short-shorts. or maybe a sandwich sign or assless chaps. the thing is, in new york, no one would even notice.