Blazer: (n) a lightweight jacket, typically solid-colored
In my high school days I was in a music group, a quartet of fellows who were very intrigued with the idea of being famous and not quite so intent on musicality.
We spent most of our rehearsals discussing the clothes we would wear on stage, and also whether we could get a good deal on Beatle Boots. It was very important.
Of these four young men, I was the chubbiest.
So whenever we went clothes shopping and they found something they really liked–something they thought was hot and cute, which would get the girls’ attention–they would discover that it didn’t come in “Porky.”
They pretended not to be disappointed–but I knew I was holding them back from being debonaire.
One day we came across some golden blazers.
They were so cool. Everyone tried one on, and each person looked stunning in his own adolescent, awkward way.
There was one extra-large in the blazer. I tried it on, and it covered most of the terrain of my belly but pinched me at the shoulders and looked a bit ridiculous when I stood in front of the mirror.
But the guys were so intent on purchasing the garment that they convinced me I was passable.
Back home, I tried it on again and again and again. Each time it looked worse and worse and worse–especially when I wore it with the accompanying black turtleneck.
I looked like a bumblebee with a glandular problem.
So I set out to address the situation by soaking my blazer in water and then going out to my mother’s clothesline in the back yard, hanging it up with pairs of boots dangling from the inseams, so as to stretch it.
Do you get the picture?
After it dried out, I discovered that it still failed to cover my midriff–but nearly reached to my knees.
For the next year and a half, whenever it was “golden blazer time,” the other guys looked nifty and keen–and I resembled a monk who had recently acquired a beer gut.
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