Thinking it over ...
The skinny on vanity
By Félix Alfonso Peña
With thinness came vanity. I realized this when I tried on some of my old suits, one of which goes way back. The tag sewn on the inside behind one of the front pockets says "Richters," a store in Laredo, Texas, I blush to say how long ago. The latest suit I had purchased — and that was a good dozen years ago — was so baggy on me that it begged for a bulbous red nose and pancake make-up to top off the clownish attire. But the good one, the old one, is a Halston, and I was shocked at how it fit my form as if I'd had it custom-made. I've always liked nice clothes, and, yes, I do want to look good, but something in me has always resisted the vain streak that, I suppose, runs through all of us. It was always "the suit" that looked nice, or "the shirt," "the outfit," etc. Yes, it was on me, but allow my besieged humility room for dissembling, please. It's cornered at the moment, wearing a look that evokes both pity and caution. Blame the Halston. The suit is way out of date, but it made me look better than I can remember myself looking, or even caring to look, and a veritable tsunami of vanity swept me away. I didn't think, "It looks good on me." I marveled, "I look great in it!" I gulped, overwhelmed by this long-suppressed vice, and put away the suit, a bit appalled at this creature that lay coiled underneath the 43 excess pounds I've shed over the past seven months and that now hissed at me not to tread on it. I managed to avoid it for a couple of days. Then I looked up while washing my hands in front of the mirror in the bathroom at work. I was wearing my reading glasses: old frames with large lenses. That fast, the serpent lashed out: “These clunky things have got to go. Why did I pay more than $100 to replace the lenses with an updated prescription? Why, for just a couple of hundred more I could have these really nice titanium frames that look ...” Oh, the shame! This from the same guy who smiled, inwardly and somewhat patronizingly, when a friend told about having to travel to King of Prussia, Pa., home to one of the largest malls in the U.S., or New York to buy clothes, because stores in Reading just don't cut it. Me, I would just find something in my size, look for the best deal — good materials and workmanship at a good price — buy it and leave. It was guerilla shopping with a single purpose: Clothe yourself to protect yourself from the elements and societal opprobrium. All the nice, stylish things hanging in my closet came courtesy of my wife and family. Thank God for them and their fashion sense, and for holidays and birthdays, or I would spend much of my time clad in a loincloth. And now wearing those clunky reading glasses bothers me. Ni modo, or the English equivalent, "Whaddaya gawna do?" And my recent trip to the haberdasher to buy pants? Time-consuming and well nigh fruitless: “Are these too baggy in the back? Why are the legs so loose? Will they look good with my dress shirts — ¡Vaya! I need new shirts, too — I don't like the way they pucker here and ...” Ouch! I need to go find my snakebite kit! |