Penkava: Never a clothes call, men, if you go khaki
I am not a slave to fashion. Even as a little kid growing up, I pretty much reached into my dresser drawers and put on whatever I pulled out. Once I learned not to wear my underwear on the outside of my pants, I was good to go.
Sure, there was some special clothing I enjoyed wearing. I remember sporting my Hopalong Cassidy Western Frontier Cowboy outfit to school one day, complete with spurs and broad-brimmed hat. After a showdown at the “It’s Not OK Corral” with my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Schneider, I decided that it would be better to blend in than to mosey with style. Besides, I probably shouldn’t have greeted her with, “Howdy pardner, hold it right there and move your hands reeeeeal slow-like.”
After that lesson, I moved through life without a fashion worry, surviving the Ban-Lon of the ‘60s and the polyester of the ‘70s, as well as later onslaughts of Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger and some brothers named Brooks. Sometimes I fell into The Gap and other times I would just Guess. I do admit a bit of beguilement with the deep, captivating voice of the guy from the Men’s Warehouse commercial, but I was able to resist it … I guarantee it.
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