When one speaks of ‘work clothes’ one usually doesn’t mean suit-and-tie-for-the-office. It’s the old clothes that are worn to work at messy, odd jobs around the house. Sometimes these are referred to as painting clothes. I have a friend whose husband is a painter, fine art not house, and she refers to them as rag clothes. Anyway, it seems logical to infer that the fashion characteristics of someone’s work clothes will be influenced by the purpose for which they were originally purchased. I still have some T-shirts from college, in the last century, but most of my rag clothes are retired consultant togs.

Some time back I took a break from painting the kitchen doorframe and drove off to buy a fast food lunch. Whilst on the road I stopped by the local self-serve gas station to fill up the tank. I was wearing plimsoles, which younger commentators might refer to as sneakers or tennis shoes, white socks, grey sweat shorts, and one of my retired consultant shirts. At the time of purchase the shirt was of the pink, polo variety with an unfashionable (so I was informed by my then girlfriend) left breast pocket. Although now it was much faded through many episodes of incompetent bachelor laundering.

Whilst standing thus attired next to my car, waiting for the gas pump to race through my $40.00, I was approached by a sort of middle-aged gangsta wannabe. His shorts weren’t quite baggy enough, and rode too high up on his hips. He also wore his baseball cap the right way round, instead of facing backwards. He strolled over from his late model Mercedes with a broad grin on his face.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
Hey man, chew got any cigarettes?

Me
I beg your pardon? Um, no. I don’t have any cigarettes. I don’t smoke. Besides, we’re not allowed to smoke here by the gas pumps. It’s against the law, or something.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
Naw, I was gonna smoke ‘em later on the drive.
(Gesturing at my chest)
Pretty gutsy!

Me
I beg your pardon?

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe

Pretty gusty wearing that shirt out here.
It makes you look kind a faggy.

Me
I beg your pardon?

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
It makes you look faggy.
Someone could think you were queer, or something.

Me
Ah, well, I am supremely self-confident in my masculine self-image.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
(Somewhat confused)
What?

Me
I said that despite my wardrobe I remain supremely self-confident in my masculine self-image.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
(A bit more confused)
What does that mean?

Me
It means that I have enormous genetalia.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
(Officially very confused)
What?

Me
I have enormous genetalia

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
(Now he thinks that I’m making up words)
What?

Me
My penis is as long as your forearm.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
(Reconsidering his original gambit, he concentrates on the smokes)
So ah… You don’t have any cigarettes?

Me
No. I never started smoking. You know smoking stunts your growth.

Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe
Nah! I been smoking all my life, and it never hurt me.

Me
Really? Well, as I said, I’ve never smoked, and I’m at least a foot long, which I believe is the normal size. Next time you play poker with your chums you might want to bring the subject up for discussion. Some sort of comparisons might prove elucidating.

The Middle Aged Gangsta Wannabe retreated to his Mercedes and drove off. I thought that his next poker game would prove interesting. Friends to whom I told the story thought that I could have been shot several times through the self-confident masculine self-image.