I discovered on my recent trip to New York City that being a tourist in the Big Apple can prove a difficult role.  You don’t want to stick out like a Segway tour through Times Square; you want to blend in and act as if you’re here to get some serious shit done.  More apparently, you want to wear that attitude, since we all know we’re stealing looks off each other on the Q train.  I had every intention to step out of my cousin’s Brooklyn studio like an apex menswearist in my two-inch trouser cuffs and spread-collar polos.  But as suave as it could’ve looked, hoofing it through boroughs in my suede wholecuts would’ve proved hell on my feet.  The safe, blatantly tourist thing to do was to step out in my NB runners.  But the ensemble!  For shame.

But then I realized something for a moment, something that we men of sartorial pursuits can get caught into: who’s really going to give a shit?  We may research lapel widths and color combinations, but as much as we pore through detail, we gotta relax sometimes.  Go by feel, as some may say.

I wanted to feel comfortable, so the sneakers won.  I changed my shirt to a navy to match the shoes, but hey, baby steps.