“Nice blazer; fits you perfectly,” the bouncer snickered. I was standing outside a trendy dive bar in New York’s East Village – the watering hole for 20-something Manhattanites – wearing my favorite item of clothing, a grey, extra-large men’s blazer with shoulder pads. He was right, it didn’t fit me, but that was the point. I bought it from a dusty warehouse thrift store outside Washington DC in college and have barely taken it off since. Amongst a sea of tank tops and baggy jeans, I’ll admit it stood out a little, but had he not seen Yves Saint Laurent’s spring/summer 2025 runway? Does he not know who Hailey Bieber is? Thirty minutes later inside the bar, another guy takes his shot: “So, can I just ask, why the big blazer? Not that I’m saying it’s bad but it’s definitely an interesting choice.”
He was the second man to comment on my blazer in the space of an hour and, unfortunately, he wasn’t the last. “Are you cold or something?” a third chuckled next to him. Finally, I gave up. “I work in fashion,” I lied. “I’m a fashion critic.” These words, similar to my blazer, were the fast-acting male repellent I needed. The man’s smirk fell. Strangely, he wasn’t interested in hearing my commentary on his outfit, despite so kindly offering me his.
