When I have to wear a suit to work

For one or two days out of every year I have to wear a suit to work.  This is one of those days.  I hate it.  I can’t stand wearing suits.  I feel like I’m at my own open-casket funeral.  I don’t mind tuxes, in fact I quite enjoy wearing my tux.  I think a man in a tux is just about irresistible.  And most men look pretty darn good in a suit.  I just hate wearing one.  They are itchy and stuffy and blah.

I own two suits.  The first one is now a museum piece, as I had a small waist when I first bought few years ago.  Days gone by, my friends, days gone by.  The second is a chunky dark gray suit that looks like it was taken right out of The Sopranos wardrobe.  It was poorly tailored in a rush to have it ready for my grandfather’s funeral and completely unsuited (ha, unsuited!) for business use.  Unless I’m conducting business in a titty bar.

Since I almost never have to wear a suit I don’t like the idea of spending money on a new one.  I pulled out my mobster sack suit this morning and tried it on.  I felt lumpy and misshapen and unattractive and looked like I should be peddling encyclopedia sets door-to-door or drinking whiskey out of a bottle in a brown paper bag while feeding pigeons in the park with the other eighty-year old war veterans.

Fortunately, I am a homosexual.  Even better, I am a fashionable homosexual.  And best of all, I am a fashionable homosexual with an equally fashion-conscious homosexual lover who is the same jacket size and only one waist size bigger than me.  That means that I can double my wardrobe at a moment’s notice.  He owns two very nice suits, both of which happen to fit me quite nicely.

Today I am in his sleek charcoal gray pinstripe with a lavender shirt and white, grey and lavender diagonally striped tie.  And I have to say, I look pretty damn good.  But still, I can’t wait to get home after the day’s work functions, tear the clothes from my body and run around the house in the freedom of the only suit that really fits me:  my birthday suit.


Dear Higher Power,

Today as I was returning to the office from lunch I realized I had an extra fifteen minutes to kill so I decided to sit in the plaza and relax.  There was an empty bench under some trees and a chair next to the fountain.  I started towards the bench but something moved me at the last second to veer towards the chair.  I sat down to commence my relaxation.  A few minutes later a woman sat down on the bench to eat her lunch.  She had just opened her carry-out dish when she suddenly screamed in horror as a pigeon pooped all over her and her meal.

Whoever/Wherever/Whatever you are, I wanted to say thank you for guiding me to the chair by the fountain and giving me a good laugh and sparing me from a shitty Monday.