Welcome to the Eastside

Last Wednesday I went to my first art gallery opening. Not surprisingly, I was a little concerned about what to throw on. I know I am not a very fashionable person and since my relocation to the east, it has become painfully obvious…I look like a tourist. Or something to that effect. In other words, I ain’t from here. I prefer to fit in where I go and what I wear should reflect. Wear what makes you comfortable? Eh, I like dress for the occasion better.

So I tossed on an older charcoal wool long sleeve, some baggy jeans, black leather coat and black lace up boots and set off with one of my new housemates. Said housemate invited me because I was sitting there with nothing to do and took pity on me. Thus, we drove over to the Chelsea area and parked. Now let me say once out of our chariot, I suddenly realized how wrong this looked. She was an outfit complete with handmade crème jacket and exposed red stitching, blue top, nicer jeans and fusha shoes. What she had screamed spring and fresh. Me.. not so much. More prince of darkness –ish.

We fell into a boutique where I felt my 6’2 frame shrink to 2 feet tall. The immaculate nature of the outfits the people in the store were wearing caused me to really start thinking about what I had on. The immaculately trimmed beards in contrast to my two day old scruff, the nice black tops to my weathered jacket with a mysterious patch of dirt on it and their high polished shoes to my.. oo.. lets let that go. The once over I received from of the salesmen told me my ish was all wrong.

So as they complemented my housemates outfit, I kept thinking how tight everything was she had on… but didn’t get the shoes. As I stood and pondered this, she says something about ‘these things? Prada baby!! Pleaaase’. With that she took off the shoe and displayed the logo on the inside. I had to shake my head after that. I don’t need to look like them, per se, but I didn’t need to look like I didn’t care about what I wore as well.