"Here's the thing you gotta know about clothes," I say to my unborn son or daughter, whom I'm sure will someday be as awkward as I was (and continue to be). I'm having this conversation, as one does, while plowing through the morning commuter crowd in Union Square, the lot of us crashing headlong through the tunnels underground.
"Clothes," I continue, thinking of the loose-knit, cowl-neck sweater I'm wearing today that I never would have dared wear a few years ago, "are not something that tells people who you are. You can use them to fib, tell little white lies, about who you want people to think you are."
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