Grumblings of an old man

When I was younger, wearing a suit was something special. Donning the suit felt solemn, almost religious. Once I was wearing the suit, my tie was tied, my hair was neatened, my special black shiny shoes were on, I felt different. Special. Powerful. Sexy.

Today, wearing a suit is, if anything, a nuisance. There’s still a trace of the old feeling left, but mostly, having to dress so ornately is just a bother, that’s all. Ties are stifling. Jackets restrict my movement. Trousers hug my body in the wrong places.

Partially, this is because my self-image has changed; I’m a much more confident person now than I was 6 years ago. My sense of self-worth comes much less from what I think other people think of me, and much more from what I think I think of me. I don’t need to dress up to feel special, powerful, or sexy – I just need to blot the image of my unhappily large stomach from my mind.

Partially, this is from overuse; for 18 months, I wore a suit every day for work. Once you do it that often, for something so mundane, it’s just not special any more.

Partially, this is because I’ve come to realise that some damn annoying people wear suits, and I just don’t want to be associated with them. People whose feeling of self-worth comes from the fact that they have to wear a suit to work. People who think that by donning a suit, they’re special, powerful, and sexy.

Unrelatedly, there’s a boi who’s been haunting me for a while now. I’ve seen him a couple of times a week, around the city. I’m fairly sure he’s gay, although I don’t think I’ve seen him on the Golden Mile anywhere. I keep running into him random places – for instance, he was waiting on the platform at Town Hall tonight, and we saw each other just as the train glided to a halt. I know he recognises me too, from the way he reacted when we made eye contact. I have no idea who he is, or where we first met, or why we keep seeing each other though.

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