Fat man with a Thin Man’s wardrobe

Once, quite a while ago, I dressed with a certain flair, a quiet elegance; not designer labels, but quiet Brooks Brothers, Florsham Imperials, British cut sport jackets, from John Hue, Hong Kong - all fit, stylish without outlandish flash - but then that was a long time and many pounds ago. I wore them with an air of confidence; dressed right for every occasion.

Now I not longer own a suit, my few sport jackets (relics of an earlier age ) are unbuttonable by several inches, trousers are a “battle of the bulge” and my few inelegant shoes no longer fit. Neckties hang at the back of the closet, seldom seen or visited. I do have a reasonable, almost generous, supply of sport shirts which I only wear on weekends should some excursion be in the offing. In short, I am sorely out of fashion, a 210 pound man with a 185 pound wardrobe, or what’s left of one. Still, I abhor looking frumpy, out of style on those rare occasions where a better style is expected of me - when I know better but lack the means or real desire to become fashionable.

I would like to achieve what I once regarded as my own style, an ageless elegance's the time when I visited Randy at RISD, expected to appear like an older Ivy leaguer and was perceived as an Orson Welles type. But then, even when dressing weird my clothes fit. Alas, no longer.

I still dream, on occasion, of the feel of a good English tweed jacket, roomy in cut, sharply creased trousers breaking smartly above excellent custom made Jodphur boots, Sea Island cotton shirts and a subdued Italian silk tie. That was me. The smart chap who drove a vintage Alfa-Romero and drank only 12 year old scotch.

I’ve heard transsexuals say they are females trapped in a male body or visa versa - never understood it until I realized I’m a fashionable, trim, in shape middle aged guy trapped in the body of an overweight, poorly dressed fat old guy QED.