Back when I was in college, I had a roommate named Scott Capro who refused to use an umbrella or eat an ice cream cone. He felt they were the two least manly acts on the face of the earth, and while in the ensuing years he has surely changed diapers, donned an apron, made goofy faces and uttered such inanities as “Open up your mouth and let the choo-choo train spoon in!” Scott is steadfast in his anti- umbrella and ice cream stances.
Now, here’s a third.
As I write this, I am sitting in a corner of the neighborhood Cosi, wearing my overalls. They’re faded blue, holes line the pockets and I’ve owned them for, oh, 10 … 12 years. They’re insanely comfortable, it’s a wee-bit too cold for shorts and all my other jeans are in the wash. Hence, my outfit.
I’d like to say I don’t feel like a fool. But I feel like a fool. Thirty-seven year old men don’t wear overalls. Come to think of it, no adults wear overalls. Perhaps I’m starting the overall comeback.
But, really, I just look moronic.
