I wish our local clothing retailer, “Fo’Sho Philly Style Clothing”, hadn’t gone under — partly because it was right down the street (and thus perfect for someone who’d wear a burlap sack or even a wooden barrel with suspenders if it meant avoiding a trip to the mall) and partly because, despite the fact that Philadelphia is my ancestral city, I actually have no idea what constitutes “Philly Style” beyond putting on the biggest, thickest, warmest overcoat you can lay hands on while fending off skeptical glances with “Yo, F*CK YOU, [insert racial/ethnic/religious/homophobic slur of choice]!” (Bonus points, obviously, for casting aspersions on the other party’s mother.)
That said, I do have a seasonal wardrobe of sorts. In the summer, when all of North Carolina turns into a 54,000-sq. mile sauna, I wear nifty little dresses. And I look kind of cute, or so I’m told. In the winter, when I often find myself stranded at a bus stop on the grit-encrusted shoulder of a five-lane highway in the freezing rain for 40 minutes at a stretch, I wear ALL THE LAYERS. And I look homeless, or so I’m told.*
Alas, this kind of rigid wardrobe dichotomy inevitably results in an awkward inter-seasonal period — at the moment, it’s far too cold for me to wear my summer clothes, but my winter clothes are falling apart at the seams. So I look pretty shabby right now, unlike these folks:
And I’ll leave you with that, since I’ve got one final and very important deadline to meet before I can embark on my weekend.