Book. Cover. Judging By...
How many times have we been counseled not to judge books by their covers? We understand that the advice is only about metaphorical books; with real books, the very first decision we make—about whether or not we should pick it up, open it, and even read it—is based on the cover. So, in that sense, judging a book by its cover is what we always do.
That should be a comforting ego boost to folks who design book covers.
But, as the maxim is not really about book jackets, you’ve probably guessed that this post is not about real books, either. It’s about judging people based on their exterior appearance. We all do it, every day (no matter how carefully we try to avoid doing so), and base our decisions on a range of stereotypes, past experiences, and other unworthy projections of our own preferences, fears, and assumptions. Our decisions are usually flawed because—where people’s personal appearance is concerned—their look is not an open book.
The following chunk of self-indulgence has been excerpted, in slightly modified form, from a collection of autobiographical essays, The Digressions of Dr Sanscravat: Gastronomical Ramblings & Other Diversions.
Nota bene, and/or caveat emptor: The extent of the dating—alluded to, all-too-frequently, in the text—was largely aspirational, and has been exaggerated for literary effect.
Closet as Confessional
I dressed, for a time in high school, as a greaser wannabe.
Having been, for too long, short, nerdy, and obnoxious, I employed that look in an attempt to prevent getting beaten up all the time. It wasn’t entirely convincing, though—I couldn’t drive a car and didn’t know I could get a motorcycle. I wore a T-shirt, black jacket, pointy black shoes, and tight black “continental” pants. Since I didn’t smoke, the obligatory pack of cigarettes was not rolled in my T-shirt’s left sleeve. I dated girls who were cha-cha wannabes—so I also wore a lot of hickies.
Suddenly, and without advance notice, I grew to be one of the tallest kids in the class. Kids suggested that I go out for sports. I did that for a coupla’ years. Didn’t make a very convincing jock, either. I tended to favor practice more than games (I have an obsessive nature—and prefer boring repetitive activities over the “excitement” of public competition). I wore tab collars and chinos and desert boots. I dated girls who were vaguely frou-frou.
People tried to get me involved in other school functions as well. I gravitated to the only ones that were arty and allowed me to wander around instead of going to class. Yearbook photography, school newspaper, stage crew—that sort of thing.
Despite your entirely reasonable expectations, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I was never in the A-V club.
I dated a girl in the college-prep track who was a year older than me. I wore sweaters, penny loafers, and tight jeans. Excessive drinking with the “big kids” meant that I also wore a considerable amount of vomit and grass stains.
By senior year, I had abandoned all manner of school pride. Kafka, Bertrand Russell, Leadbelly, Jack Kerouac, and Franz Kline were my idols. I wore the same hooded navy blue sweatshirt and paint-covered sneakers and jeans every day. When the local paper came to the school to photograph scholarship winners, they snapped one picture before the guidance counselor saw what I was wearing. He removed his shirt and tie and made me wear them for a second picture. However, the second picture didn’t come out—so the paper ran the first one. It was cool—one beatnik (this was years before hippies were invented) in a crowd of preppies.
I have (as you might guess, based on my nom de plume) rarely worn a tie since then.
Spent most of the spring of my senior year cutting school and skinny-dipping in an abandoned quarry (that looked very much like the one in Breaking Away). My girlfriend was already in college, but I saw her on weekends. I guess you could say that my preferred attire, during that period, was nakedness.
You may draw what conclusions you like from the above. Some of the chronology may be off, but I doubt that it’s significant. The observations are truthful if the timing is not. The best way to categorize my clothing, back then, was that it was appropriate for a “serial wannabe.”
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The reason for the sartorial slant of the above was that people seem to identify nerdiness with its external manifestation—as in “if only he had a decent closet to come out of.” But true nerdiness transcends wardrobe. True nerdiness might involve, for example, thinking far too much about the epistemology of style, thereby guaranteeing one’s inability to actually possess it. It does not pay, when wishing upon a star, to dwell over-long upon the principles of celestial mechanics.
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