I just might have a new addiction. After my addiction to Fabergé egg/door stops collection that is.
On Sunday, I found myself back at my dealer. I said I would not walk in the front door, then it was to "only look" but I knew. I knew I needed the rush of standing on that tiny platform as an Ukrainian man took chalk to my nether regions.
There is a certain rush you only get from buying a new suit.
You can mix the gitty-glee of "balls to the wall"* shopping spree, with the manliest pursuit of being surrounded by wool. Add in the elderly gentlemen that want nothing more than shove a tape measure up your bum, and you have manly ecstasy.
As I stood there, incased in wool, letting the former Eastern Block tailors work their magic of trimming away the fat, and disguising the fat, I realized why "brides" squee about their dresses. This thought made my spine quiver. When the head tailor was done re-arranging my balls, I asked if he had a cigar. Or maybe a Dos Equis.
Okay, so I have a wool addiction. I have come to terms with this. It's harmless. Well, besides the damage to my credit card.
*trade mark saying by that umber sexy Aussie, Kez.
you have to show us your new suit
ReplyDeletea tape measure up your bum?
ReplyDeleteduuuuuuuude. who is this tailor and what prison was he in?
Rather than comment on how this "addiction" is simply a practical manifestation of your white collar office porn fetish, my mind focussed on something else...
ReplyDeleteBalls to the wall? Even if technically and anatomically possible... why? I knew there had to be a deeper meaning to that expression.
http://www.idiomsite.com/ballstothe.htm
I think I need to go get measured for a suit.
ReplyDeletePics or it didn't happen.
ReplyDelete