Now, I’ll admit, my adventures out of the village are few and far between. My fancy-pants jaunts out of the immediate area are rare, but not non-existent. I have been known to go to restaurants. I occasionally go to the theatre. I sometimes make it to lunch with friends, or drinks at the Legion. But when the occasion calls for something resembling dressing up, I have a pinstripe frock coat, which I rock quite admirably. I have blouses. Some of them fit.
Okay, one of them fits.
Apologies for being crass, but my bust only appeared in my early thirties and I’m not quite sure how to dress for it. Put it on the list of ambitions. I will learn.
Anyway, the frock coat is so unexpected being, as it is, so very different from my usual brown leather jacket, that it throws people on sight. And as such, I get away with jeans on the lower half, because they don’t really show and by that point, people are somewhat lacking in words. But best of all, better than the coat, better than getting away with jeans even in ritzy areas, is the cravat.
I know myself quite well. I’m not a tie, or a bowtie kind of person. The hell with gender-norms. I really don’t care. If a tie suited me, I’d wear it. But it doesn’t. However, and I’ll say it myself, I look like heaven in a cravat.