Writing: Clad in Plaid

The pool where I work on campus is surrounded by windows and since it’s located in the center of campus, there’s a lot of foot traffic. I oftentimes find myself glancing at people passing by. One guy in particular struck a chord with me and caused me to quickly write this.

When I see the despicable pattern in its classic color scheme, I instantly cringe. I almost feel sorry for the guy, but then I stop myself before the empathy kicks in. He made the choice himself, for I sincerely doubt someone held a gun to his head swaying his decision as he stood in front of his closet this morning.
My hatred for plaid runs deep. Its existence is as pointless as that of Crocs. A series of lines of various thicknesses, alternating between red, gray, black, blue, yellow, white. Their combination plants images of lumberjacks and burly unshaven men in the mind. How that stereotype came about, I don’t really care to know, but the fact that it exists should have hold some weight with the plaid wearing community. Yet it doesn’t. The autrocity that is plaid clothing–especially long-sleeved, button down shirts as they receive the strongest shudder of disgust–continues.
There’s a reason plaid rhymes with bad and sad.

It actually hurt to search google for this image.

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