Dress the monkey in silk...
I may wear a suit, but I only "seem" suave. It is all a clever ruse, an external appearance that I work for... well, work. Beneath the layers of fine wool and cotton lies the same slovenly t-shirt wearing kid who forgets to iron things and wears mismatching socks as long as they are in the same "color group." Gray with dark blue? Why not! Neither are in the "brights" group. My scraggly beard may seem like it was grown to give me a sense of maturity and experience, but it is not. I gave up on ties months ago and instead opt of the business casual look, which in my dictionary means anything in my closet with a dinner jacket on top. Too hot for a shirt? wear a t-shirt under the suit jacket. Too cold? wear a sweater under your jacket. Is everything else too dirty? Wear whatever is left under... you guessed it, the suit jacket. As the spanish idiom goes, Aunque el mono se vista de seda, mono se queda, literally translated: "even if the monkey is dressed up in silk, he is still a monkey." Or as my adapted english equivalent goes, You can dress a horse up in a nice suit, take him to a fancy bar and order him a Cosmopolitan, but you cant make him drink it.
But it wasnt until today that I realized just how much of a business poser I really am. For the past week I have been noticing that my dress shoes had developed a certain dynamism and organic quality that had not been included the original sales price when I bought them over 5 years ago. They have reached that classic plateau of footwear pubescence where they want to be their own selves and free their souls, or should I say soles. Because, without my permission, they started to cultivate a set of growing cracks and holes. This wasnt a big problem for me. The holes were on the bottom of the shoe and where not visible unless you turned them over. As I said, I am not too picky. I just saw it as added ventilation for my tootsies.
However, that was before the rain started. As I walked to work this morning, under a constant drizzle and a dark early morning sky, the puddles on the ground became the pools in my shoes. Though I am not too picky about stuff, I dont really like unauthorized foot washing rituals performed with streetwater. After 2 moist hours of class I was finally free to relax and get a bite to eat. I walked to a nearby shopping center in the drizzle and sat down in VIPS, a local restaurant chain. After ordering some breakfast, I went into the shop section and picked up a tube of all-purpose glue. Then I went to the bathroom and started "operation dry toe." This consisted of an attack on various fronts: 1)dry socks with hand dryer, 2)dry inside of shoes with paper towels 3) repair the soles of the rebellious footwear. The first two were the easiest, though I kept looking over my shoulder, knowing that with my luck a group of mockers would probably walk in on me while I was in the middle of it all. But my luck was unusually sleepy that morning, and I was left to my own devices.
Glueing the shoes was a bit more complicated. First of all, I didn't have anything to glue to them. I ended up just using pieces of the plastic casing that the actual glue came in. Then I slapped some goop on em, and stuck them over the holes. I spent my breakfast time getting up and spending quite a few 5 minute breaks in the bathroom working on my footwear, lest people wonder why the hand dryer was on for 30 minutes straight. Then it was time to test my creation. I paid the waiter and walked outside onto the wet sidewalk. Triumph! Or so I thought at first until I actually started walking towards the train station. Perhaps it was the walking that messed it up, or the fact that it was wet out, or the fact that I am probably legally retarded, either way, the plastic came right off the soles as soon as I walked out of the door. The holes patiently awaited under the poorly glued plastic, eager to lap up any puddle that had ever held the aspiration to meet a sock.
But it wasnt until today that I realized just how much of a business poser I really am. For the past week I have been noticing that my dress shoes had developed a certain dynamism and organic quality that had not been included the original sales price when I bought them over 5 years ago. They have reached that classic plateau of footwear pubescence where they want to be their own selves and free their souls, or should I say soles. Because, without my permission, they started to cultivate a set of growing cracks and holes. This wasnt a big problem for me. The holes were on the bottom of the shoe and where not visible unless you turned them over. As I said, I am not too picky. I just saw it as added ventilation for my tootsies.
However, that was before the rain started. As I walked to work this morning, under a constant drizzle and a dark early morning sky, the puddles on the ground became the pools in my shoes. Though I am not too picky about stuff, I dont really like unauthorized foot washing rituals performed with streetwater. After 2 moist hours of class I was finally free to relax and get a bite to eat. I walked to a nearby shopping center in the drizzle and sat down in VIPS, a local restaurant chain. After ordering some breakfast, I went into the shop section and picked up a tube of all-purpose glue. Then I went to the bathroom and started "operation dry toe." This consisted of an attack on various fronts: 1)dry socks with hand dryer, 2)dry inside of shoes with paper towels 3) repair the soles of the rebellious footwear. The first two were the easiest, though I kept looking over my shoulder, knowing that with my luck a group of mockers would probably walk in on me while I was in the middle of it all. But my luck was unusually sleepy that morning, and I was left to my own devices.
Glueing the shoes was a bit more complicated. First of all, I didn't have anything to glue to them. I ended up just using pieces of the plastic casing that the actual glue came in. Then I slapped some goop on em, and stuck them over the holes. I spent my breakfast time getting up and spending quite a few 5 minute breaks in the bathroom working on my footwear, lest people wonder why the hand dryer was on for 30 minutes straight. Then it was time to test my creation. I paid the waiter and walked outside onto the wet sidewalk. Triumph! Or so I thought at first until I actually started walking towards the train station. Perhaps it was the walking that messed it up, or the fact that it was wet out, or the fact that I am probably legally retarded, either way, the plastic came right off the soles as soon as I walked out of the door. The holes patiently awaited under the poorly glued plastic, eager to lap up any puddle that had ever held the aspiration to meet a sock.
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