Like most of my non-nudist moth-y friends, I too feel compelled to greet every morning with a trip to a suspended bare bulb inside my coop’s cloth lined crypt known as the bedroom closet. I am not lucky enough to have a hangar big enough to store both my ego and tent-sized tighty whities, or even make a good impression in a gym locker room. So sadly, I must thrust my duff daily into a tiny textile tomb of trappings, wrappings and togs in a zesty quest to dress my best instead of a mess.
Due to my oversized Kong body and undersized donkey dome that simple goal for most souls, of seeking apropos furbelow, is a challenging chore for me. To make matters worse, I admit coming out of the closet in the Winter can be difficult since along with my nose at night, I tend to keep the igloo blue and crispy cool too. Even if the dawn doesn’t mind breaking daily I DO, so I lament stubborn buttons and fleecy duds that stick or won’t clip zippy-quick to prevent my pipe from freezing stiff.
Not only in the closet but obviously my wife and I frequent many of the same places, so it seems every organization to which we belong we receive a pair of matching logo polo shirts - one in her size and one in mine. Of course in the full light of day any ‘knit’-wit should be able to see the difference between a blouse and a rumpled blimp-skin. But then again can I help it if my aging ‘ojos’ and bleary before-breakfast brain, only have enough sense left to interpret shivering and some kind of shapeless shirt?
Hey given my evolving age and devolving fashion sense, is it any real surprise that I truly am facing a dim outlook as to my closeted life and inadvertent foray as a fatter yet slightly less wild-haired version of RuPaul? Remember in some ancient cultures of the Caribbean and South Pacific, a big gut straining at the seams of a stretchy hide shows a rich life of abundance - and a mouth watering crew BBQ for a whole week! No matter how well I fill-out my wife’s closet frocks into ‘Eww’ too–tight muscle shirts, I know I’ll never be a stylish fashion PLATE … I’m better served upon a greasy dinner ONE with fava beans on the side.