Sooner or later someone is going to pull up in a Fashion Police van while I’m outside walking the dog in colorfully striped socks, cargo shorts, and a pair of black rubber Crocs (you know, for effect). Someone, like those people from that one TLC-show, What Not To Wear, or maybe a glassy-eyed reanimation of Joan Rivers controlled by a Google AI, will practically dive out of said van with a posse of TV production people and fake arrest me for unconscionable crimes against civilized apparel the world over.
Which, you know, would probably all be warranted. Thankfully there’s no actual such thing as the Fashion Police outside of overpriced, under-written celebrity harrassment magazines. But even if there was, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because at the end of the day (well, or year) none of those van people could say they did something wholly, completely, and visibly different for 365 consecutive days.
Which is why I’m absolutely okay with walking the dog in mint stripes, cargo shorts, and Crocs.
Oh, and also because this is the suburbs, and it never hurts to spice things up in the ‘burbs from time to time.