Jon22: The Website of Jonathan Dobres

This story involves clothing. Clothing and pain.

My appointment for a BU senior portrait is just around the corner. This is painful enough, as it constitutes a physical coordinate by which to measure the inevitable end of college. End of college? GOD NO! The thing is, if I’m going to sit for a picture that signifies the end of the happiest days of my life, I at least want to look good. To look good, I need some new clothing.

Here’s where the fun starts. As a man 5’8” tall and approximately 98 pounds heavy, clothing that fits me properly is, shall we say, hard to come by. My unique size is something I have struggled with for literally my entire life, and as I learned today, IT WILL NEVER GET EASIER.

One of the things that I love about Boston is the fact that it attracts a great many stores, and one of those stores, H&M, carries clothing that fits me perfectly. The sizes are very “European,” meaning they’re perfect for hyperactive stick bugs such as myself.

H&M carries suits, but the selection is pretty small, and they also don’t have a Designated Suit Guy, the little man (or men) who scurry about the men’s clothing department like a cadre of whimsical tailor gnomes. The Designated Suit Guy is a double edged sword—on the one hand, he’s paid on commission and must sell you things in order to live, but on the other hand, he’ll make sure that you look great in whatever he does sell you. Since I was suffering from a bout of insecurity I opted to head a block over to Filene’s Basement, where I knew they’d have a Designated Suit Guy.

His name was Richard. I only know his name because I overheard him on the phone with another customer. I spent some time wandering around his department, hoping that if I tried on some jackets and got some basic idea of my size, it’d be easier for him to help me. When I finally approached Richard, he took one look at me and said, “You’re a Boys 18, sixth floor.” I was stunned by the speed of his assessment. It was like a superpower or something. Normally I despise any suggestion that at the age of twenty-one I should shop in the Boys section, but I was awed by the shear decisiveness of Richard’s words. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was more like a benediction. “I behold thee a Boys 18. Now begone from mine sight.” And lo, I immediately ascended the escalators to the 6th floor, forthwith and toot sweet.

Oops. Gift wrapping. He must have meant the fifth floor. Strike one for Richard. Indeed, the fifth floor had boys’ suits. One lonely little cluster of racks, full of miniature suits made from cheap materials. It felt like a sick parody of the department I had just been in, but I swallowed my pride when I actually found a size 18. Sadly, Richard the Designated Suit Guy’s judgment was a little off; the sleeves on the 18 were a good inch or two too short, and I clearly needed a 20. Signs all over the floor proclaimed that I was standing in the Boys size 8-20 section, but as it turns out, these signs were nothing but glossy lies. Nowhere could I find anything larger than 18.

Extremely frustrated, I renamed Richard to Dick, exited the store, and stomped over to Macy’s. I hate Macy’s for two major reasons. One, it is the quintessential department store, and I like to maintain the illusion that I’m above that. Mostly, though, I hate Macy’s because the make-up and jewelery departments that invariably cover the areas closest to the entrance remind me of a funhouse. Mirrors everywhere and women running around in costume. However, at this point I was well into hour two of the Quest for Clothing, and I was hating Dick a whole lot more than Macy’s, so Macy’s would be getting my business.

Upon entering the store I accosted the nearest salesperson, who pointed me toward the men’s clothing section. Instinct lead me to hunt down the smallest size on the rack, a 36 Short. The length of the jacket was fine, but the sleeves were just a touch too short. Do I hear a 36 Regular? Yes indeed, but it had the opposite problem; the sleeves were perfect but the jacket itself felt a little long to me. After trying on some different jackets with the help of the Designated Suit Guy (who was much more attractive and younger than Dick), we decided that a 36 Regular black pinstripe was acceptable, especially since longer jackets are in style these days. The pants will need some extreme tailoring, but the portraits on Tuesday will be from the chest up, so no worries.

I tried to sign up for a Macy’s Charge Card to save forty dollars on the purchase, but I was paying for the suit on a card that I use almost exclusively to buy plane tickets and I couldn’t remember the PIN. I must’ve looked remarkably suspcious, but at this point I was utterly beyond the mortal concepts of patience and concern. I think the machine sensed just how near my emotional limit I was getting, and somehow, despite the laws of physics, despite the fact that I definitely entered the wrong PIN, the sale went through. It was a miracle. Alert the Vatican.

Then I walked back to Filene’s and punched Dick in the face for suggesting that I shop in the kiddie section. Alright, I actually went back because Filene’s has shirts and ties in every color of the visible light spectrum and the prices are great. One blue shirt, one red shirt, one yellow tie, and one shiny black tie.

With the black pinstripes, red shirt, and black tie, I look like The Devil. Or a gangster. Or some kind of devil-gangster. And it’s fantastic.