helplessness inquiries that i'm choosing to answer at a later time

So it has come to this: sewing books that I'm having trouble keeping open.  Three, to be exact.  I might be jumping ahead of myself, pitching in a couture sewing book for good measure, though it's never too early to sew like Karl, yes?

Speaking of days following tomorrow, I will have sewn several napkins and an a-line skirt for -- I suppose the time will have come -- myself.  I imagine there will be some fabric displacement involved.  In an ideal world, we can eat pastries without halt, and I will be able to sew without a dressform.  Dressforms are daunting.  The selection is innumerable; how do I settle on one, and which one?  Do male dressforms come in my size?  Should I just buy a kid's dressform for smaller sizing?  Are they even called dressforms? 



Professionalism is largely a social construct, something I can't say I have a full handle over at times.  "Your clothes are wrinkled."  "That's my aesthetic," I would reply, ideally.  But deep within, I knew better than to divulge before I knew better.

Scrubs are my uniform of chance.  They're worn with fear at my institution.  And like many things from the place mentioned, adhesions are lost as laxer alternatives are experimented with.  It's not surprising to see polo and crew necks on my coworkers.  Neither would it be surprising to take off my scrubs and resort to my v-neck underneath, my opinion. 

I'm arriving at a conclusion that didn't require pavement, but since I'm here: unlike personal style, uniforms are to be of witness to the customer.  Arguing its effect on the wearer's work mentality is a valid point, though the greater picture is to be seen from the consumer point of view.  Work is work, after all.



Passing shoulders, C halted to marvel at the saturated stripes of cerulean, kelly, and white.  "Your taste in clothes is aging," she offered.  All she got was a cackle.

Some background on this germane individual.  Like those similar minded, her philosophy for clothing is defined as an image enhancer.  "With age," -- with as much seriousness as stating an opinion -- clothing takes on a greater role of much of the same; this means sequins, stark colors, and components of holiday adornments.

While yet time for an overhaul, she pronounced my departure from minimalism.  My allowance for color in an outfit was limited to different colors under the same hue.  I realize now, the aesthetic of not repeating hues nor colors; stark contrasts can be harmonious.  Also, it's a cost-absent method of upending a wardrobe.

Nevertheless, not even the Ark Hotel was built in a single day; with viridian Levi's on, I was well-nigh of counting my steps to muted gray shorts.



Before my years of personal choice, corduroy was a hapless fabric to find in clothes.  Bulkiness was a characteristic often unwittingly paired along.  The surface area carried, with each ridge, a compartment for lingering odors – for homes with shrines, this meant a constant reminder that a deity is not in charge of doing your laundry.

In recent, finer tailoring days, it requires less effort to develop a fondness toward its cotton-esque daintiness yet rugged-textured exterior.  I have worn these corduroy pants from American Apparel that are no different than leaving bed sans legs; you feel dressed for comfort, but in reality you are doing so and looking however great the fit allows.

For me, if anyone, odor control has become much less of a concern.  Though, corduroy's attraction for carpets may be the next hurdle.  I'll deal with my OCD afterward.