The Joy of Being Underdressed
Clothes no longer make the man — as long as both are clean
If I could turn back time and change three things, I know exactly what they’d be. First, I would have come out sooner — probably during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at the University of Florida. (Though “why then” is a story for another piece entirely.) Secondly, I would have cared less about what others thought about me. And finally, I would have reconsidered my entire approach to footwear.
In my twenties, ill-conceived shoe choice was one of my worst enemies, and I now have the shabby feet to show for it. My insistence on wearing the most fabulous shoes I could squeeze my hooves into — especially boots that were very much not made for walking — left me with a few unsightly souvenirs on my bunioned left foot.
My ridiculous sartorial rules didn’t apply only to me: I refused to look twice at any guy who wore sneakers when he wasn’t running. It didn’t matter what he was wearing on the rest of his body; his feet had to be perfectly attired.
One ex dumped me because he wanted ‘a T-shirt and jeans kind of guy.’ I wonder what he would have thought of Casual Weekend Jeremy.
