Fashion Victim

On Saturday, Erik and I went out to dinner with friends. As we sat there, sipping wine and nibbling olives, I realized that this might be the last grown-up date we manage until 2017. The last Uber ride. The last excellent meal. The last time my good clothes escape from the vacuum-sealed prison of a Space Bag.

Cruisers aren't known for their fashion sense. As a group, our sartorial choices are less "haute couture" than "derelicte". But we're out there rocking the hobo chic with good reason. The sun and salt combo is hard on clothing. Lying on top on the engine to tinker with a cranky alternator is even harder. And if you want to wash your clothes? Find yourself a bucket, haul up some saltwater and have at 'er. If you're lucky, you can spare a little fresh water to rinse out your unmentionables. But usually it's bathing suit time until you hit the next laundromat. And that means that clothes suffer.

Take this shirt:

I can honestly say I got my $7.99 out of this thing.

Once upon a time, this shirt was dark purple. It lacked those charming holes. It didn't smell vaguely of diesel. You might be wondering why I still have it. It is, admittedly, a pretty manky piece of equipment. Nonetheless, there I am in the previous blog post, wearing this thing. Why? Because it is Category 3 Boatwear, that's why. Here is the hierarchy:

This shirt is in bad shape, true. But it still covered all my critical areas and, more importantly, kept me from getting too dirty. Since it wasn't yet an artful web of formerly-purple mesh, it was still good to go as a work shirt. Simple as that.

That is far from my only grim outfit. Not even close. For example, here I am painting the hull last week:

Those running shoes predate my kids.

 

 Let's take a closer look at what is happening in this mess:

Mmm hmm.

Erik has solved the clothing issue by acquiring a lockerful of PPE - that's personal protective equipment for those of you out of the loop. In short, Erik wears navy and orange everything nowadays.

You can take the boy out of the mine...

Given enough time, all clothes become hideous workwear. The only reason I'm not out there cutting plumbing hoses in my finery is because I haven't worn any of my dresses often enough to break them down to workwear levels.

It could happen. Someday you might see me painting antifouling in the tatters of my wedding gown, doing my best Miss Havisham for passers-by. In the meantime, I'll keep my nice things safely packed away, just in case we manage a second date this year.