Friday

One fact about me: I am not altogether dressy. Sure, I probably clean-up fairly well, and wear a suit with fashionable ease; but I think this is partly, if not totally, due to the fact that I do not wear one so often that I don't carry an air of occasion when I finally do. I am mostly homier, see, preferring the comforts of worn jeans and a shaved head to the clean lines of starched shirts and a stylist. So it's a pitfall of Washington DC, especially on weekend nights, that many downtown drinking lounges are filled with the type of cunning players that fit foursquarely into the starched slash stylist camp. Another fact: today was one of those days just a little too hot for a t-shirt in the sun, and a little too cold for just a t-shirt in the shade. So I covered my ratty t-shirt with my jacket when I went to town to meet with some friends at a bar. Turns out this was one of the dressy places, of course. I was wearing a pair of stained green cargo pants, muddy combat boots, and a ratty t-shirt. Everyone else was dressed in a collared shirt, rakishly after-five tie, or a sharp little pantsuit number. Well not everybody: our friend Holly looked a lot better than just that, even. I looked exactly like I always look, except with more sweat. It was hot inside the bar, and I was afraid to take my jacket off. It was a lot less ratty than the t-shirt. What the hell, I knew I was going downtown on a Friday night. I should have known better. I was uncomfortable so we didn't stay long. We headed to Karma where I felt trendily disheveled while drinking mojitos. [Cavin]