I like turtlenecks. Especially black ones, so when Number 1 son asked what I wanted for Christmas I said a black turtleneck. Unless you are a Steve (Jobs or McQueen) every man needs at least one in his closet.
Black turtlenecks exude a certain debonair insolence to mere mortals, an undeserved sophistication. A way with words, and silences.
What I really meant, and I knew it when I told him was, I like the idea of turtlenecks more than the execution. As much as I like the look, even on me, the neck always gags, and before long I've stretched it until I look even more like a potato sack.
So I give them up. So much for the slimming power of black.
Several years on I'm certain I need a black turtleneck, and the cycle renews.
Except this time the shirt fit. First time, out of the box, brand new. Still I look like a svelte sack of spuds, but now I don't care. One of Ralph's better numbers. I feel sophisticated. Adult.
Many thanks to #1 and family, you've hit a home run.
Toad
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