la commentaire de la mode (an editorial on style)

Very unlike such that activists have fought for freedom, the oppression I have been experiencing will dissipate this weekend. I need to write several papers in the next two days, one of which is for my French honors class (imagine that). The topic is style in clothing, which can include an explanation of clothing I have worn over the years. What made me curious is the possibility of sharing my obvious (to some) view regarding clothing faux-pas. (I would have used "fashion" in place of "clothing", but I thought that would cause one to mistake me for a fashion design student...) Heck, I am one who must try his hardest to *not* match my clothing.

As picky as I am about my own wear, certain friends of mine also realize how particular I am about other people's clothing. Shoes, pants, tops, accessories, and hairstyle--it is impossible not to judge upon first impression. For instance, a few minutes ago, as I am sitting in cafe on campus, I saw a girl wearing galoshes with jeans and a t-shirt. What's the problem with that? Well--really, only the galoshes. It was not the first time I had seen this galoshes wear today. Three times, in fact. It's not raining, they are usually frighteningly ugly, and those who seem to wear them have a look of conviction, as if they think it is superiorly fashionable. Then again, I suppose that is how flip-flops, sweatpants, pajama pants, and wifebeaters became acceptable for casual wear outside the home.

Personally, choice in one's attire says much about the self. It can signify a person's sleep habits, level of dedication, social status, and attitude towards others. I try not to get too caught up in all the variables, but it can be very daunting. It is said that you should not judge a book by its cover, but I sure do. In fact, I judge it by whether its a hardcover over a paperback, its binding, and whether it has been dropped or leafed through before I have gotten to it. In the same way I judge books before opening them, I judge others (myself included) based on their packaging and physical features. It doesn't mean I won't take a chance on a book that makes a not-so-strong impression upon first glance. That's not so bad, right?

I would not be intimidated if I were you (whoever you are). Everyone judges as much, yet they are not so eager to be so vocal. I know what I like but I am certainly open to satisfactory anomalies. First impressions are everything--do you read me?

jamais deux sans trois (when it rains, it pours)

It took me over eight months to decide upon the creation of such a blog. For such a long time, I was paranoid that sharing my thoughts on a more permanent medium than my own mind would induce dissatisfaction overall. As with most things, this feeling passed and I pushed myself to establish this blog, much from the encouragement of two good friends. Some friends peer others to smoke drugs or eat concoctions in the school lunchroom. Mine mean well for the most part, fortunately.

Today, I thought I would take advantage of my recent dedication to only using my car when I must. Like yesterday, I walked to the small park near Ludlow to read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. On the way there from my house, I took very photos of what used to be old hotels in the Clifton area, which are now simply apartment buildings. There are also a few black & white shots of the old brick homes we have in the area. I feel likely to have so many inanimate subjects to shoot.

I figured I'd pick up groceries when I began to feel small raindrops. The event that followed is one reason why I settled upon the name for the username for my blog. As with every name I choose though, it ended up having several possible interpreted meanings, just the way I like it. You guessed it--it poured. Not only that, I chose paper over plastic while at the checkout register. I became as close as a couple hundred feet from home when the first handle broke. Two minutes later, the second handle broke and down fell one of my bags. I carried my two paper grocery bags like I would bring home a thirty-pound turkey or a restless child.

Somehow my rejection of convenience felt worthwhile, even though I dripped on to the hallway mat as I entired my front door. Yes, I dripped. I was one giant raindrop.