Last night I drove past a man getting out of his car. He was at least 70, very tan, and wearing a seersucker shirt, madras plaid shorts, and topsiders. He looked so out of place as to appear comical. It reminded me of going to New York to drop Michael off when he moved there. It was August, and people weren't wearing much. I felt as though I was in a completely alien environment because folks were baring so much flesh.
Mark Twain is credited as saying that the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. I've thought about the cold (it's hard to avoid thinking about the cold), but I hadn't thought much about how it impacts what we wear. A summer outfit, to me, involves a cardigan or windbreaker. Beachwear involves a fleece jacket and long pants. It's not that there's never a time for shorts, but it certainly isn't at the beach. And madras? With a tan??? Where on earth was he from?
Then as I continued home I drove past a guy who was jogging in a T-shirt which read "I (heart) hot moms." My heart sang, and my faith in Berkeley men's couture was realigned.
