I’ve been thinking about my Birthday Suit a lot of late; more to the point, I’ve been pondering the uselessness of clothes. It’s a subject that is hard to get your head around, no matter how long and hard you touch on it, so to speak.
At best calculations, my daily routine involves nine costume changes. I don’t work as a male model, but I do seem to be dropping my trousers with the same ease that supermodels swap partners.
It all starts off with my Jim Jam shorts. Most things do. These are soon swiped off to be replaced with whatever lycra look of the day takes my fancy.
A quick cycle to the lovely lido, and then I’m dropping my draws once again. This time it’s a downsizing, in more ways than one as I whip out the Speedos. Twenty lengths later and the lycra re-emerges.
It’s round about this stage in the morning when I start to realise the monotony and meaningless to my routine. My costume changes also require a great deal of carrying of my various clothes, another factor to consider as I fathom a life of letting it all hang out in the breeze.
The lycra is definitely the look I feel most comfortable in. The reaction of my work colleagues would suggest this isn’t a shared opinion. Whoops – time to do the Mr Benn and his magic wardrobe routine once again.
My work clothes are slightly restraining, and even slightly less fashionable. But they cover up the bits and pieces that would otherwise lead to a continuous lifestyle of brazen body behaviour. The next step from impudent nudity in the 9-5 is normally a P45.
With the workday done, a young man’s thoughts turn towards… lycra. The tighter the better. A quick strip down in the work toilets (blimey) and I’m back in the saddle for the short bicycle ride home.
But sitting around on your settee in your Le Tour ’84 look can get slightly restrictive. Time for a change. Back to the boxers and the Jim Jam bottoms. I just hope no one comes knocking at the door, or if they do, prey God that it is a Jehovah Witness so that I can show them the true meaning of suffering.
And there ends the wardrobe malfunctions for my average day. I’ve calculated that I lose at least forty-five minutes through simply getting my freak on and off. Not a lot is lost or gained in terms of style; a rugged look is a rugged look, with or without lycra.
Changing clothes is on par with shaving as being an utterly pointless activity. Only shopping for clothes can compete in being more of a waste of your time.
I’ve been having the classic naked dream of late as well. Nope, not *that* one, but the scene in which you are wearing the Emperor’s New Clothes, oblivious to everyone around you.
Maybe if I were to reverse roles and parade around in my Birthday Suit all day, the opposite would happen in my dreams?
I’d probably only end up pulling, leading to the line of
get yer kit off, love.
A man should change his clothes with the same frequency that he changes his underpants. Once a week would work well for me.