clothes hoarse

i am not turned out. i never give it a thought. i tell myself i'm ok with it. i can pass as someone who dresses adequately. it's the same today as it was when i was as a kid. in high school i wore the standard blazers and sweaters, nothing exceptional. i looked all right leaving the house, but as soon as i got to school i was a disaster - cereal on tie, milk on pants, loafers crushed at the heel, shirt tail out, dandruff on shoulders and ink stains on shirt cuffs. today the last place i spend cash is on clothes. i shop old navy, the salvation army and boomerangs. i buy dumb t-shirts and generic pants with too many pockets. the t's have armpit holes, dated logos and they're getting bigger. they resemble hawaiian mumus. from XL to XXXL they've become the Super Bowl of t's. they tent over my beer belly like a deflated all weather dome. sometimes i experiment with color. red t, green pants - Christmas-y! brown on brown - Miles Davis-y! black-on-black - DKNY-sy! and i make hardly a dent in hipster-ville. as for the shoes? my party shoes? buxom Doc Martin boots, scuffed up like scabs and worn rarely. the laces are ravaged and stressed out like raw nerves. they require 'orthotics' - layered strips of rubber that lift and twist my right heel to make one leg longer or shorter than the other and to take the pressure off my hip and lower back. my podiatrist intones: "forget surgery; go with the orthotics" (which is hard to pronounce without a lisp...orthotixth). they slide like stubborn trout into the bottoms of my 'beasts', the sneakers he also insisted upon which, at $120 a pop, are as expensive as they are ugly. they come in bleach white only, like nurses marsh mellow shoes and are, within a week, transformed into petri dishes of doyles drippings and droppings, the white smudged out, with my big toenail poking through the upper front and busting a peek hole that looks like an inflamed asshole. maybe they should call them that: 'assholes'. anyhow, i wear these more than the party boots just because i don't want to bother with the trout transfer and i figure who's gonna look at my feet anyway? perhaps if i had short people 'lifts' or cha-cha heels i'd seem more in style, but i gave that up years ago. like Popeye says: 'i yam what i yam' - a pig in a t-shirt with fat shoes.