I never realized how generic my taste in fashion is until I spent more time on campus. It seems like every other day that I spot some dope in Turlington wearing a shirt I have somewhere in my closet, or worse, one I'm currently wearing.
Not too long ago, I was standing in line at Subway when I saw my favorite olive-green shirt clinging to an oncoming dweeb with an overstuffed backpack and a tent-sized umbrella.
I glanced down and tugged at my own shirt. Yep. Olive-green.
I panicked and dove into a nearby bathroom, sacrificing my space in line to avoid that stupid "Hey, we're twins!" exchange where we point back and forth at each other's chests and greet apathetic bystanders with shrugs that say, "We totally didn't plan this."
I waited out the storm in a bathroom stall, perching on the commode with bated breath. I feared that somewhere, bobbing around campus, there was a menace trying to make me look common. Where did he get the nerve?
It's a real shame. I've had to move some of my favorite shirts down on my weekly wardrobe batting order because of this. Suddenly, that blue and white-striped ditty I picked up for half-off at Aeropostale isn't as hip as I once thought it was.
Unfortunately for me, it's the dweebs who are stealing my look. I'd have no problem doing the back-and-forth-chest-pointing move with someone cool, but unless Tim Tebow starts wearing robin's-egg-blue button-ups and cashmere sweaters, I don't think that will be happening any time soon.
For now, it seems like my fellow dweebs and I share a uniform of dull earth tones and floppy, wrinkled collars. Every new shirt I buy has probably already been worn by some fellow with the same hope for a conservative and polished appearance that isn't seen or noticed by anyone.
If only we dweebs could avoid seeing and noticing each other.
Erik Voss is a senior majoring in journalism.
