If it is true that clothes make the man, then I confess to being poorly constructed.
Most garb hangs on me like tree moss. Shirts skew, slacks droop, belts bulge, neckties wag more than the tails of hyper-wound dogs. Colors clash with eye-aching disharmony.
It's enough to make Regis Philbin weep, or prompt Calvin Klein to surrender his business and invest his time in some other life mission, one a little less impossible.