the vest test

Before the longsleeves, there were the shortsleeves. Before the shortsleeves, there was the polo shirt. Before the polo shirts, there was the flannel. And before flannel jackets, there were t-shirts with words like "radical" or "gecko" or "nevada." Yes, the evolution of my taste in clothing only climaxed after I discovered Phillip Seymour Hoffman in "The Talented Mr. Ripley." After that seminal moment, it wasn't about looking good, it became about looking as eccentric as possible without invading Drew Carey territory.

And so began the experimental period. With the gucci glasses came one more forced eccentricity: the sweater vest. Let's just say it added to the definition that my tummy demands. Anyhow -- that was a passing phase. So, more to the point...

I've warmed to several of my classmates, and though much evidence lies to the contrary, they've warmed to me. I think they've gotten over the tactless hump. So I ran a little social experiment -- wear the hideous sweater vest to see if any of them feel comfortable enough to mock it. It's an ass-ugly, brown, man-nip enhancing piece of work -- it deserves at least a confused look.

But of course, the test failed. Not a single snide remark, but I later verified that they were indeed thinking it. The emotional boundaries of the biologist never cease to amaze me. I was given a word of caution today from swing-voter-grad-student-Glen today about my social standing in light of the families, wardrobes, zits, and mannerisms that have been slandered. I guess I'm used to people rationalizing my grain of salt by taking comfort in the fact that I'm "viciously" insecure.

And among other disappointments today:
This was not the Maureen Dowd I was promised:

They proooomised she looked like this:

Right, not hot either way. But I'd prefer the 'falcon among liberals' look to the libermanesque pigeon look. How profoundly disappointing.