For most of the year, I've been hearing a familiar refrain regarding fashion: "The weather right now sucks. When it's nice at the end of the year, I'll be more likely to care about how I look. Until then," the refrain continues, "I just want to be comfortable." And while, for the whole year, I've been speaking of the merits of doing otherwise, I definitely appreciate the desire to dress comfortably. Clothes are meant to be lived in, not just looked at. However, I also know that it's not necessarily true that people start to care what they look like at the end of the year. Jeans and a sweatshirt no longer feel comfortable when the weather eclipses the 60-degree mark. Shorts and t-shirts (which generally come in brighter colors) just feel better in this weather. In short, it's probably not out of concern for image that people look happier and springier. Our dress reflects who we are, and most of us naturally seek comfort. At the end of the year, comfort just looks better. Again, I can appreciate that.

On Wednesday I watched two very interesting presentations consecutively, exiting each with the same conclusion about their style, but not their fashion. First, I saw a painter present his work as though the presentation served the role of a job interview, which in a sense it did since Bowdoin is currently hiring for a professor to fill the role of two people on sabbatical. Normally, I would expect someone coming in to interview for a job to dress as if interviewing for a job—at least a button-up shirt, tie, suit jacket, dress pants. This is what the Career Planning Center (CPC) conditions us almost-graduated seniors to do, isn't it? So I was surprised to see a man in a casual jacket, button-down shirt, and jeans standing at the front of the room.

In this column, I strive to offer sources of stylistic inspiration from outside the Bowdoin Bubble: magazines, blogs, experience in different cities and countries. Admittedly, some forays are more inspired than others. My column on novelty boxers is more my plea to humanity to cut it out than "inspiration." However, I do think, since the season threatens to change ever so gently, that I should address questions not as of yet covered by my column: "What is style?," "Why does it matter?," and "Why should anyone care?"

Sometimes confessions are necessary to move forward, so I will go ahead and get this out of the way: I am not an innovator, at least not all of the time. Sure, there are times when I'll put an outfit together that no one else might think of (and, admittedly, sometimes with good reason), but there are other times when I look for inspiration as fervently as everyone else. At such times, images from magazines, newspapers, and news sites come to mind. What was Colin Firth wearing in In Bruges, and why did it seem to fit his character so well? What was Michelle Obama wearing on election night? Was it from J. Crew? However, the age of information offers more specific portals to sartorial thought.

All of a sudden, I had an urge to purchase a pair of cowboy boots. I think it started the night that I watched "Once Upon a Time in Mexico" with friends—friends who insisted on wearing cowboy boots themselves while watching a movie replete with a like-booted cast. "They're awesome, and they add just a bit of height," one friend says. The last-described characteristic of the boots attracted me especially, for, dear readers, your columnist has always looked for ways to artificially increase his diminutive height. (And before you suggest heel inserts, let me tell you, I have been there. My middle school years were spent with said inserts and, unfortunately, inserts are forever tied to those painful years of life, so alas, I must move on).

This week, I present a list I've created. It begins with stripes and solids, flowers and dots, plain and plaid, then moves to penguins and polar bears, darts, dartboards, and dogs, and finally, "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." The patterns can be camouflaged or even glow-in-the-dark. Many patterns may be commonly seen on a wide variety of clothing, from button-downs to waffle tees. For some, the list can go on to include smiley faces and "witty" sayings like, "Hold It Up High," "Wanna Pet My Monkey?" and "I Am The King!" When the list moves on to these other, more imaginative elements, there can be no doubt as to what the list catalogues: men's underwear. More specifically, boxers.

For some reason, the weather has been pretty good since returning from break. Having come back to a snowy, watery, slushy campus in the past, I expect the worst of Maine weather. Recently, however, I have been pleasantly surprised by temperatures reaching well into the 40s. So much for Bowdoin and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Season. But the weather forecast seems to think that this shift toward uncomfortable will occur sometime in the next few days, and what that forecast means besides the crippling realization that warmth will not come back until May (and the ensuing Seasonal Affective Disorder), is that wardrobes will shift from light summer/autumn clothes to heavier winter clothing.

Today, I clash. With my pants patterned subtly plaid, shirt pressed with opposing stripes, suit jacket suitably unsuitably matched, I am a body carrying an array of textures in seemingly gross disharmony when described. But the actual phenomenon is not gross disharmony, but desirable disharmony that comes off as potentially over-the-top, but tasteful. This is how I might describe myself: at times crass, but never classless. Sometimes, it's okay to clash.

It was a chilly autumn day?one where you could see your breath?but nevertheless, five senior girls marched out to the center of the field, dressed in the most decadent skimpy dresses (the kind that end above the knee) their wardrobes would allow. In that group stood four popular girls, and it was assumed that one of those four would win the crown of Homecoming Queen. But something magical happened that day on the halftime field. The band quieted, and the names of each young lady blared across the stadium. Each of the four popular girls stood in anticipation of her crown. Then, shock: As announcer named the Homecoming Queen, the four popular girls dropped their jaws in horror, and the girl at the end?the girl that everyone forgot about, the nice one, the kind one?stepped forward and received her crown. The popular girls were livid. On that Homecoming Day of parades and floats, of football and heaping doses of school spirit, it was this Cinderella-story of the girl that everyone wrote off prevailing over the four popular, evil stepsisters. Some force broke the typical high school social constructs and allowed a special moment for an unsuspecting girl: magic for one night. In a word, special. This was my highschool homecoming.