What Your Favorite Outerwear Says About You

You wear a heavy tweed blazer over an even heavier knitted cardigan because you want to stay snug on your way to your 8:15 a.m. client meeting. If only you cared about how you smell because you wreak of eleventy cigarette butts and stale booze. You still party like a college kid because you equate manliness with how much whiskey you can take down. But you dress like an "adult," so it's all good in your eyes. You still have your blog on your business card.

Even though you spend most of your time driving a teardrop camper across country while eating deer jerky, you have half a mind to look decent as you keep yourself warm. So what you don't care for amenities like "cell phones" and "soap" or that you haven't shaved your beard in 8 months and it looks like a pubic fire hazard. It's all part of the experience! People can't tell you shit when your gloves are made out of something you killed and skinned yourself.

You are a really practical guy. You have simple, pragmatic style and you don't try to stray too far outside your lane. Your graphic design and/or photography gig has done wonders for you thus far and you don't want things to change because change is bad. Your girlfriend wants to get super serious and she's made it apparent by leaving her shit at your Soho loft, but that means you'll eventually have to get married. "But what's wrong with what we have now? I don't want to mess that up!" is what you frequently ask.

You is opulent. Your style is synonymous with "decadent." At least that's how you describe it in your self-published YouTube videos where you discuss celebrity style, gossip, scandal, and other important issues. You do things like take deep whiffs of candles and recite its top notes. You also have the keen ability to roll your eyes, like, really far back. Especially at gawkers who dare question the authenticity of your mink. Don't they see that bitch dragging on the floor?

You spilled a little clam chowder on your raw denim yesterday afternoon and forgot to clean it, so the crustiness is evident as you wear them again today. New England area food hasn't been good to you because you are considering surgically reducing your man-boobs, but L.L. Bean's company health insurance won't cover it. You vow to wear a puffy vest for the rest of your life to hide your shame and present the notion that you're an outdoorsman.

Your northwestern roots allow you to outwardly show your appreciation for well-crafted goods, which frequently leads to claims of "IDGAF about wearing jackets and shit because my abuela makes some dope ass blankets I can actually rock. Don't tread on me, man." Too bad this conversation you just had was with the box of cereal you accidentally put in the fridge, after putting the milk back in the cupboard. Which reminds you that you really need to stop smoking weed before you go to work.

You frequently go on style-related rants about aesthetics and people unworthy of wearing "Rick." BTW you and Owens da Gawd are on a first name basis. You have a slight tan, but it's only from the warm glow of your computer screen because your ability to troll didn't just happen overnight. It comes with practice. And a girlfriend will just come in the way of that, OKAY MOM?!

You are #trendy as fuck. You are practically the honey badger of fashion. You call people who ask you about your sweet jacket "peasants" after you tell them you got it in the "18th arrondissement" and keep it moving. Your impracticality levels can't be fucked with because suede outerwear is basically an oxymoron and the second it precipitates, you're running into the nearest store, even if it's a *gasp* Starbucks.

You took karate classes from age 5 to 19, but you aren't quite a black belt. You rely on you Arc'Teryx Veilance technical jackets and drop crotch pants to tell people how "ninja" you may or may not be, but you've never actually gotten into a fight. You did, however, bring some brass knuckles just in case, but you forgot which of the 47 pockets you put it in. Depending on who's asking, your style icons are either Prodigy circa 1996 or some Swiss mountain climber no one else has heard of/cares about.

You don't really know what a post route or a 1-2-2 press is, but you've made a mean soufflé in your lifetime. Your mother set your clothes out for you until you were 16. You've actually never equated the lush varsity jacket you are wearing to an actual physical sport because ew, sweat. Do you even lift, bro? The answer is no.