Happy Thursday my friends. I worked until seven this evening, wanting so bad to just finish the review work I’ve been working on for the past week or so. And, I almost did it too. Almost. Tomorrow will be the forcing function, as I’ve setup meetings with those I’ve been writing about. I figure sitting down with them to review the the review will pretty much force me to finish the review, right? Right.

Wednesday morning, as I readied myself to travel to Oregon, I had in the back of my mind my brother’s foreboding warning from the day prior: “Dude, it’s totally freezing here. It’s snowing!”. Mindful of this, I attempted to dress for the elements. I decided this meant I would try and wear my long underwear beneath my dress pants. See, I had to dress up, as I was meeting customers from Japan, where the coat-and-tie still rule the business world. And, I’m always conscious of how thin fancypants are. They may look nice, and give the Japanese assurances that I’m all-business, but they don’t do anything to stop the icy wind from freezing my thighs.

I’ve only every worn my long underwear when camping. In fact, I bought them (underwear are plural, why?) for specifically for hiking and camping, with no intentions of wearing them in real-life situations. They are dark blue, as a matter of fact, and you couldn’t really call them conspicuous at all. So, I had a bit of a time decided just how best to both wear them and completely conceal the fact that I was wearing them. In the end, I decided on tucking them into my tan dress socks, then pulling those socks up to maximum height to avoid any sneak-peaks during crossed-legged situations or the like. In the end, I found myself in front of the long mirror in our bedroom around 4:30am, staring at my pants and socks, trying to objectively determine if a third-party observer would be able to tell I was wearing long underwear. Satisfied, I kept them on.

And man, am I glad I did. It was completely freezing in Oregon, and even with the extra layer underneath my thin-but-snazzy khakis, I was hugging myself for warmth in the three minutes outside while changing trains. I even had enough confidence to cross my legs during the meeting, no fear. I mean, they were a little “pully,” and somewhat noticeable in terms of comfort-transparency, but I think it was worth it.

Dressclothes suck for comfort anyway, right, with all their diabolical tug-and-pull interdependencies? Undershirt tucked into pants, dressshirt atop, belt cinching them both tight so that every twist and turn, every stand-up and sit-down pulls on my shoulders or somehow inexplicably at my wrists or elbows. I guess it’s just something you have to deal with, the price of being dapper, or somesuch.

And, speaking of mirrors, I noticed yesterday that, even though I’ve seen myself in the mirror thousands of times, I still catch myself walking through public places (airports, for example) mentally picking out folks and thinking, “Is that what I look like?” The portly guy with the well-kept, if unimpressively thin and sparse, beard, a decidedly unfair-trade coffee in one hand, iPod in the other. The wanna-be businessman thirty-something with a Bluetooth fixed to one ear whose laptop trails behind him in some lower-back sparing stewardess style rollerboard. That’s me, isn’t it? That’s totally what I look like. Like that dude right there, right? Awww man, it is. It’s absolutely what I look like.


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