To ensure nourishment from the sweet, sweet content teat, I have tested my stomach by taking weekday fit pics.
Taking pictures of myself is a constant battle, and looking at them a war.
Let’s see if there was a fucking point.
This should come as no surprise to anyone, but I have more clothes than anyone truly needs.
If you go back to the start, you’ll see that I have chastised myself plenty for my lazy uniform. A J.Crew Giant-Fit Oxford and a pair of Uniqlo barrel-leg pants had become an anchor.
So, to get above water, I decided to get dressed.
My biggest fear, other than the obvious—I’m going to look fat in pictures—was somehow that I didn’t have enough clothes. Overconsumption and application are different beasts.
A personal hero of mine once said something like, the only thing worse than an outfit repeater is an outfit rememberer. But isn’t the whole point of this thing kind of that people would remember my outfits?
Though I shopped—I always shop—I didn’t want it to look like this guy went out and bought a bunch of shit to aura farm, because in life it’s important that you dance with the girl you brought to the dance.
Day 1 was like the first day of school. Laying out my mfpen shirt and Ralph pants, trying to look good without looking like Mommy ironed it.
Day 2, I wore a quarter-zip that it was too hot to wear.
Day 3, doubt set in after I couldn’t find my sunnies to flick up with my morning coffee.
Day 4, things actually felt natural. I was going out for a birthday after work, so I put that shit on. Not because I had made some demented promise to myself, but because I had somewhere to be. It was also the first time I swallowed my pride, stopped wrestling with my tripod, and had someone take a picture of me.
This is the point in the movie where they’d do a nice montage to dad rock and you’d see me getting off crazy fits like it’s nobody’s business.
Though I’m sure I made it look that easy, it wasn’t all guitar solos and yearning. I got some much-needed posing advice—thank you, Jenna—and started bringing my “photographer,” aka Ray, on my errands.
I’m not the type of person who needs to make the bed every day for a little victory, but putting on a good fit is a different story. It became my making the bed.
I turned getting dressed into a formula that made me feel good, not a uniform that did nothing but coddle me.
After a month of this, I can firmly report back that…I am a hypocrite.
I rant and rave about elastic and forgiving pants, but when the cards are on the table, most days end in negotiation and a belt to call it compromise.
I guess if I learned anything from this, it’s that people love fits on the grid—even if you wear the same three pairs of pants.
And who am I to deny the people?