The artifice of the working man.

Recently I got a password alert from Google. Someone had compromised one of my accounts. I found and discovered I had created an account there.

Why, when, I don’t know. It must have been a time of aspirational thinking if they can sell a work shirt for $128.

Shoes. Denim. Coats. Everything is of the proper style. And overpriced. It projects the image of the can do, go-getter. The worker, the labourer, the ready and willing in $400 Jackets and $30 tees. I love them. And so wish I could afford it.

Working class has me in last years denim and crumpled shirts. Clothing isn’t built to last to those that can’t afford it. It is cheap, and worn out, and came from China, or India, or far off lands. Sewn together swiftly and without skill before it’s off on another boat to find our shores. It all comes down to a price; and these are worth mere nickels. Even there they find a profit as I shop the bargain counter. I might buy a blister pack of undershirts for $5. The fruit of the loom still makes its money.

So I do enjoy the conceit of buying $200 jeans and calling yourself rugged. I like the fact we set such a fine example. The best amongst us, worth paying a fine dollar for. To emulate their style. The look, the feel, the fashion. Not the ethos of a population. Not to match them, look like them. Just to feel a little more useful, and maybe have a little taste of what makes us so special.

To be rugged, to be vigorous, to be bold. Shop

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