Polartec and puff: woes of Bowdoin’s winter wardrobe

348 and Maine street: Clowning around: bright colored pants are a joke

It has come to my attention that we are in dire need of a dressing lesson. I realized we were in trouble because I have eyesight and possess a normal desire to keep my eyes functioning—which is a challenge when confronted with atrocities that make them bleed, like genocide and sequined Uggs. This lesson is called How To Avoid Looking Like a Clown.
Now, to be clear, I have nothing against clowns. In fact, as those who know me well can tell you, I briefly attended clown school. There is great fun to be had in being a clown, but there is a reason I don’t tell many people about my time behind the red nose. With Valentine’s Day upon us, this reason is even more urgent: nobody wants to fuck a clown. Or rather, no one wants to fuck someone who looks like a clown without realizing it. Professional clowns are, as a rule, very sexy and have no shortage of Valentine’s dates. That’s because they know not to take their work home with them.
If you want to look like a clown, and know you look like a clown, and understand the consequences of looking like a clown, I applaud you. You are an eccentric and will die alone. But I suspect that most of the people who I’m talking about have no idea how ridiculous they look and would not like to spend their lives, let alone next Friday, celibate and friendless. But fear not, for I am here to help!

348 and Maine street: Crime of comfort: wearing sweatpants in public shows a lack of effort, still not cool

I thought we had evolved beyond this. I really thought we had. It was foolish of me to think so. But I really hoped, for a moment at least, that we could actually be civilized and prove we are better than our neanderthal ancestors or our mouse cousins or our martian counterparts. (I don’t know anything, obviously, about genetics or astronomy.)
What is this atrocity of which I speak? What is this disgrace to our species? No, it’s not that we still can lose whole airplanes in this age when our every movement is tracked and satellites can see an ant take a shit under a house.
It’s also not that the Russians still think it’s acceptable to take any piece of land that Vladimir Putin wants to use to frolic shirtless with his horses or play the so-called most dangerous game with Angela Merkel. And it is not even that anyone still can’t marry everyone else.
All these things are, of course, disgraceful.
But the real tragedy of the human race—one that plays out day after day after day—is that people wake up in this country—at this school even—and of their own free will put on sweatpants and go forth into the world.
We are, it seems, worse than the chimpanzees, for they don’t think it acceptable to drape themselves in fraying fleece and tattered terry cloth.
Yes, here and now I declare sweatpants an enemy of the people worse than Putin and Malaysia Airlines combined. Until last week, Fred Phelps was Public Enemy Number One, but now he is gone and rotting in a hell-hole with Hitler and Bermuda shorts.
If you must wear sweatpants in the comfort of your home when you have a date with Ben and Jerry and Lindsay and Oprah, I have no objection—as long as you don’t tell me about it. But as soon as you step outside, you expose the world to the horror of sweats, and you yourself become a blight on humanity.
Why can’t we be bothered to make a little effort and get dressed and care a little more about looking presentable?
Why must we be comfortable all the time? Why must we dress as if to take a nap, anywhere and anytime?
Comfort, I think, is overrated. It seems as if the only thing we care about is being comfortable. When did we lose the ability to make an effort in our clothing choices? I’m not advocating for a return to corsets, but you could at least put on some blue jeans—ones that are less than 90 percent elastane. I’m not even saying that pain is beauty. But I am saying that beauty is not sweatpants.
I don’t care if you call them yoga pants or jogging pants or lounging pantaloons. I don’t care if Kanye endorses them or claims he invented them. I don’t care if they’re for sale at Bergdorf’s or on the cover of Vogue.
Please, resist the urge to be comfortable all the time, even if Anna Wintour tells you it’s okay. Grow up and put on some real pants. And after you’ve taken off your sweatpants, take them (and your Uggs while you’re at it) and burn them.
You’ll thank me later, when Putin doesn’t confuse you for a sack of potatoes and eat you for breakfast. Instead, he’ll see you as a civilized human being. He still might eat you for breakfast, but you’ll look damn good as he does.

348 and Maine street

Polartec and puff: woes of Bowdoin’s winter wardrobe

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Evan Horwitz

Columnist

February 21, 2014

It is tempting, I know, to give up. Between the never-ending snow squall and ever-building mountain of homework begging for your procrastination, I understand the impulse to just throw in the towel, throw on a couple of sweatshirts and give in to false allure of Bean Boots.

Yes, it is a cruel, cold world and it seems like most of each day consists of deciphering parking bans and trying not to disappear into snow banks. Yes, it is a mighty struggle to get out of bed and confront outdoor temperatures that make you question whether this blasted place is even fit for human habitation. And yes, it takes an unsettling amount of time to convince yourself that going to class or having human interaction is more important than staying home in your footie pajamas and binge-watching “House of Cards.” But I implore you, do not give up on getting dressed and looking halfway presentable.

But, I hear you protest, it’s a herculean task just to brave the elements to accomplish the essentials—attending class, getting food and coffee, and going to parties. These, you say, are the bare necessities of the collegiate experience; I can’t possibly be bothered to do any more when the earth is this frigid and I have so much work to do. I don’t have time for basic hygiene, you claim, let alone getting dressed like a self-respecting human being.

First of all, take a shower. You will not catch cold and die. This isn’t 1808. Second, and more importantly, if you have time to take Buzzfeed quizzes, then you have time to take off your sweatpants and put on something that isn’t so sad and crusty.

I am not asking for much here, just a little effort. I’m even willing to be a little flexible with my usual sartorial standards in this godforsaken arctic tundra. But come on, you can do better. Here are some basic guidelines:

Hats are stupid and mess up your hair. You may wear one only if your hair is already a mess and it is below ten degrees. Also, you must be positive that you will not be photographed. Gloves, however, are recommended.

Snowpants, unless you are on skis, are forbidden. No exceptions. The same goes for goggles.
Your oversized sweatshirt does wonders to keep you warm. It also does wonders in repelling your romantic interests, your friends and your professors. You may wear it at home if you are alone, but maybe not even then.

Remember earmuffs? I, for one, am in a constant struggle to forget them. Don’t remind me. This includes those annoying ones that wrap around the back of your head that were popular around Y2K when everything tried to balance the line between sleek and practical, but ended up being made of fleece.

And, finally, a word on down coats. Yes, we all have them. Yes, we all must wear them sometimes, namely the times when you feel you may freeze in place if you stop moving.

Yes, they come in a range of styles from the form-fitting Patagonia to the body-swallowing Canada Goose. But, no matter the style or practicality, there is no way around it: they are deeply ugly. I think I see the Michelin Man everywhere I go, and that is never a good thing. I understand you must wear that puffy, futuristic monstrosity sometimes, but do so sparingly.

All it takes is a little effort, an effort to put on clothes made of fibers that weren’t developed in laboratories for polar researchers. You might be a little colder, but you’ll look better. And when they find us all frozen to death, isn’t that what matters?

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