Did you love that one I slipped in on the end? You can’t say I’m entirely without style.

I’m not normally an anxious person, but it does happen. I hear about things that give people anxiety, whether it’s public speaking, flirting with the opposite sex or working to tight deadlines in high pressure situations. Performance anxiety is a thing that many succumb to, whatever its form. When it strikes it can be utterly debilitating, taking apart your confidence piece by piece, leaving you a helpless puddle of goo on the floor. For most people, the aforementioned issues weigh heavily on their sense of contentment. For me, I have one defining weakness that causes my knees to shake, then crash to the ground. I’m terrible at clothes.

You’d think I’d indulged in a poor grammatical error, but the problem is too vast to cede to simple laws of written structure. I just can’t do clothes in any fashion. Pun wasn’t intended, but now I wish it was. I’m terrible at choosing clothes to purchase, owning suitable attire for specific situations, or mixing and matching in a complementary fashion. I don’t know how to compose an outfit, much less an outfit that’ll work for an intended outcome. Whenever I get someone to help me out, they’re disappointed in the lack of felicitous choices and my general sloven indifference. When shopping, my anxiety about being out of my element means I get quickly wound/fed up and need to find something with a minimum modicum of fuss, otherwise I lose my shit and sulk. If I walk into a store and don’t immediately see what I’m looking for, I’ll often just leave. If I have someone with me (usually a lady or gay gentleman, it’s an unfair stereotype, but they seem to have the fantastic fashion sense that I’m sorely lacking) they’ll drag me in and call me on my shit. Alone, I’m like a petulant child.

When it comes time to put things together, I fare no better. I reach the end of my tether often before even pulling things off their coat hangers. Everything seems too much effort and it throws me for a loop. What do you mean I need to iron this? A tie? Why would I own a tie? Of course I don’t own a blazer, can’t I just wear a leather jacket to the interview? I hate tucking in shirts, a) because I don’t have the flat figure for a good shirt tucking and b) because try as I might, even with my decent Google-fu, I can’t find a suitable way to tuck it in without having it billow out the side like the sail of a galleon. I mean, I find the right guides, but tucking things in comes under the general umbrella of “clothes”, which we’ve ascertained I’m incapable of doing.

So here I am trying to find something to wear for a job interview tomorrow. I thankfully accosted my lady friend to help me find pants after the last interview, but I pretty much only have one shirt (I think I left my purple one at my relatives’ house. Did you hear that? I was considering a purple shirt to be viable garb for an interview. I really don’t know how to clothes) and it’s charcoal coloured. I own a nice looking white shirt that I’d bought for a best man outfit, but it turns out the shirt is somewhat transparent. Shit. Oooh, I do own a plain white shirt that I bought for an Ace Ventura costume. Success! Oh wait, the neckline comes up so high that I’d need to hide it by sealing the top button. Well that looks silly. Oh what’s that you say flatmate? You have a tie I can borrow? That’s great! Oh, it really works with the shirt too. Wait, why are there no buttons on the arms? Can I get away with just folding up the sleeves? Not in an interview? Who makes these rules? Fuck. I might have some cuff links lying around here somewhere. Oh yeah, they’re at the bottom of this drawer. Oh wait, now the transparent arms look ridiculous with the short sleeved white shirt underneath. If only I had some kind of blazer to tie it all together. Do I have one? No. Fuck. I guess it’s back to the charcoal shirt. What about shoes? Oh, I’ve got that nice brown pair? Excellent. Oh yeah, the suede got ruined from winter salt last year. Consequent attempts to clean them have proven fruitless. So tomorrow I’ve gotta wear some shitty shoes on my way to the interview, stop off at a cheap shoe store and buy some $30 black leather shoes, then throw away the pair I walked in with? I mean, I can’t come to an interview carrying smelly old shoes.

If any of this stuff really mattered in the world, I’d be unbelievably fucked. What’s that Jemima? It does? Well I guess it’s orificial then.


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