Ill-Fitted Suit

I never realized how varied a man’s torso could be.  No wonder they need their suits tailored, even in this ready-to-wear age.

I’m on the subway, and two men in matching suits have their backs to me, the one on the right has wide shoulders and a narrow waist which makes his blazer stretched out on top and baggy and loose on the bottom.  They are talking about the wine-tasting event they are going to and their plans for later.  It sounds like they reserved a room at a hotel downtown somewhere.

The F train is one of the crappiest train lines in the subway system but its riders are the most polished hipsters with their perfectly coiffed hair and fitted vests reading the latest version of the New Yorker.  The matching suits guys get off at the West 4th St. Stop- the hub of  the West Village- home to NYU (although people would argue that NYU has taken over all of Downtown) and their academics, ultra chic intellectuals and artists.

I’m on my way to Prospect Park South- five minutes farther down the F line from Park Slope, the West Village of Brooklyn- for those that have been priced out of Park Slope or arrived too late, the urban sophisticates have spread down to there.  It’s a neatly kept neighborhood, but its buildings are not as architecturally appealing as those marvelous and well-known brownstones of Park Slope.  People are wealthy, but it isn’t filled with the same intensity, at least not at the outset.  Yes, maybe they are as obnoxious as Manhattan, but they have less opportunity to show it off.  I am the same, however.  I am small and quiet.  People always ask me if I’m okay.  Seriously, why do people always ask me if I’m okay?  No, I’m not okay, but it’s none of their business, and it’s not like they would care anyway.  I think I am going through an existential crisis right now, but I’m just in denial about it.

 

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