As someone who worked in fashion retail for lifetimes, I truly appreciate my husband's clothes-horsiness and photo-doc-worthy Adidas Superstar collection. He toils over his seasonal looks well in advance of the new season. Many times I've been fooled by a dire-toned "I'VE been thinking..."
Shit. We need to live apart? You don't like girls? Gambling problem??
"Rugby shirts and corduroys. Wide-wale. What do YOU think?"
Mike's been trying to make "Crust Prep" happen for 2 summers. He's expressed this as an amalgam of young men’s leisurewear circa 1962 a la "Animal House" and filthy migrant punk. I took this to heart the first summer, emailing reference photos of the cast of "Animal House" with links to carefully hunted and chosen modern approximations, including info on DIY details like patches and pyramid studs to complete his mid-life dream uniform.
Now, I would never tell anyone what to wear who didn't ask, but I was like, "DUDE, you basically have a personal stylist in your house, if you want to do this, let's DO THIS."
Turns out what he actually wanted was a cool term to justify plaid cargo shorts and his OBSESSION with Lacoste polo shirts. EXCLUSIVELY Lacoste. The Lacoste shirts he seemed embarrassed by when we first got together, mailed away to his brother, and then requested back the following year. The "crust" part is his tattooed limbs dangling from the revered resort-wear. Trust me, this dude has excellent hygiene.
Why, thank you for fake asking with a hack pop culture nod (I seriously love that sketch though). I have a theory. I'm a highly regarded armchair psychologist, and I recall Mike's actual genius shrink unveiling a pattern of attraction to unstable suburban cheerleaders or equivalent from rich families (I'm paraphrasing, probably with amazing accuracy).
OK. So I say one of these temptresses somewhere along the line told the future Mr. Rachel that he was something short of gross, maybe even cute, when schlepping around in an authentic ALLIGATOR-adorned Lacoste polo shirt. Nothing else explains his gushing devotion but the endorsement of 1 or more pedestal-propped spoiled, blond suburban trainwrecks.
He was DRY-cleaning them. Now they get spot-treated and washed at a completely separate laundry mat from the one we drop everything else off at (sup Yor-ma! You dry my stuff on hot, but I still love you, girl). It's fascinating. He’s tried to plead irony, but COME ON. You don’t ironically dry clean your $100 shirts. In your 40’s.
I, of course, almost landed us in couples therapy being a constant pill in regards to Mike's specific label whoredom. Does it have to be the alligator? Who said it had to be so? THE RICH GIRLS? Haha, I feel like leaning over right now and asking him one more time.
I can get behind a polo shirt, but cough up the change for the Commes Des Garcons Play version with the heart-with-a-face-guy. It’s good enough for Randy Jackson, Dawg. And Ellen!
Have you ever encountered this? Some emotional attachment to a piece of clothing that the person can’t even explain or identify? How’s my theory? Ever wear the hell out of something you got compliments in?