I’ve yet to ride through town naked on my horse, but I’ve been known to choose to wear clothing that’s seen better days. Like this flannel shirt. Hazer chewed through the chest pocket to get at a couple of crumbs left over from an earlier Frisbee or training session. Did I ever wear the shirt again? You bet! That’s one of the perks of living on a farm; no matter how worn out or ill-fitting, every article of clothing can (and does) get down-graded to barn wear.
At times it’s been pointed out that I ought to care more about my appearance, but as someone who’s entire working career consisted of wearing (first) a white uniform, which was eventually followed by wearing scrubs, I never learned to put much thought into what I wore. In my thirties I took up sewing and learned how to make a pretty snazzy working wardrobe. By then I had evolved into a (dental) managerial position and I liked dressing up a bit more for my job. But not long after I started that career AIDS, HIV and bio-hazard issues downgraded the office dress code to scrubs. I never understood why the person who answered the phones, booked the appointments and made all the financial transactions had to wear scrubs too, but there you have it. I always felt a little foolish asking people to pay thousands of dollars for their implants, bridges and crowns while dressed in what looked like brightly colored pajamas.
Today I’m somewhat of a conglomerate of comfortable, casual and maybe even a touch of slob. I don’t find my identity in what I do or don’t wear and I put comfort high on my list of priorities. That means my style is one that relies heavily on active wear and/or sport clothing.