Of Denim and Sunglasses

Being fashionable is sort of like cooking a recipe for the public eye: one must add ingredients, or clothing, to the saucepan, or the body, and then heat and stir at the proper temperature, or strut and pose in a fitting way. Well, with all sincerity, my fashion sense is as insane and faulty as the above metaphor.

I think I look good in “double denim,” with the blue top lighter than the blue bottom. This is often a controversial combination. I cannot understand why. While trudging through lashing beads of rain, double denim donned, drenched and dangling down my shoulder bones, I eyed a man ahead of me, similarly dressed and seeking shelter under a bus stop. He asked me for spare change. I instinctively checked my jean pockets, but because my coins were in my wallet, and because giving a stranger money at a bus stop from a wallet probably looks a bit sketch -- however denimed the stranger may be -- I shook my head, apologised and turned towards the rain. “You look absolutely soaked,” he called out. Was this a sudden burst of empathy from someone with whom I had failed to empathise? Was this empathy a direct result of our double denim connection? Questions for the wise.

Sunglasses might prevent me from squinting in the humid Scottish sunlight, but they also turn me into a tool. In fact, sunglasses turn everybody into a tool. This is especially true when the weather suddenly changes or when the sun gets blocked by something. Then, people who wear sunglasses becomes massive tools, like cranes or something. How can people avoid becoming tools under these baffling circumstances? As the sunlight started to dull, I first folded my pair and slid it down my shirt, but the winds of Glasgow were threatening to steal them. I then held them in my hand as if I was holding a burritto. Still feeling silly, I finally resolved to stuff them into my pocket. It is amazing how cumbersome sunglasses become when the sunlight starts hiding behind a building or a cloud. I'll end this thought with ellipses...