Skid Marks

My costume is based on the concept of being the world's largest Traffic cone:

It all started when I found a pair of orange corduroy pants in my size on Fa Yuen St. The same night, I found an orange polo shirt in my size, so I knew this was fate.

The pants were a bit... form-fitting. Not in a way that suggested I was fat; the waist wasn't the problem. The problem is that people who used to play soccer have larger thighs and calves than coke-addled models named Ariel. But I digress.

I had a bright (!) idea to put reflective strips down the side of the legs; advance the theme, and get some breathing room. Unfortunately, my tailor couldn't add the reflective tape to the horrid orange corduroy pants. I don't blame him. So he added black corduroy.

There's nothing that says I can't be a well-dressed traffic cone. I used the reflective strip to make a necktie and a 'hatband' for the orange bucket that I will wear on my head.

Yes, it fits. My head is that f@#$ing big. Now shut up.

I bought (and re-wired) a rotating safety light to wear around my neck.

I have two black compression sleeves for my tennis elbow.

I am such a freak that they actually are size small KNEE sleeves.

I figured that I can call the black stripes skid marks. The fact that my arms will also be black is both utilitarian and, quite honestly, astounding in its compliance with the rudimentary fashion concept of matching.

 I know you will find this shocking (especially those of you who have seen me in my everyday slobbery), but I am not generally a fashionista.

The idea that the sleeves provide beneficial (yet necessary) medical effects is just the cherry on this couture a la mode.

Even more shocking is that I have achieved, for the first time, total synergy in fashion; I never thought I would have to say this, but my bag actually matches my outfit. It's visible there on the right.

Again, total happenstance: I had bought the bag years ago hoping that it's bright orange color would be a preventative factor in misplacing it.

Unsurprisingly, this failed.

It speaks to my personality (and fate) that on a night when I am finally complying with style to a penultimate degree, I also am wearing something unforgivably hideous and stupid.

But I figured I would need some sort of meretricious costume since otherwise I would be nearly impossible to find.