Some people tell me they can't read on exercise machines because they get a headache. I'm lucky, I suppose, because I've been able to stay on the cross-trainer machine at the Alexander Family YMCA for an hour or more reading books at a clip of about one a week. (The sublime to the ridiculous: An Abe Lincoln story one week, a biography of Bonnie and Clyde the next.)
On occasion, though, I have to go to magazines, and while on vacation recently, I'd run through about everything so I got a copy of Esquire's "Black Book," which I take it is supposed to be a definitive guide on how to dress. This was a mistake. The "guide" was full of instructions and recommendations, which included suits at $4,000 or so, shoes in the hundreds, various forms of cashmere that ran a grand or so for a scarf. Usually, my philosophy is...well, I don't know why somebody would want anything but corduroy, anyway.
But feeling somewhat inspired, I repaired to a local department store and picked up a sport coat for $75 that was referred to by a sales person as "faux cashmere," meaning that it looks and feels like the genuine article. Now don't get the idea that you can get faux cashmere at that price all the time. Nosiree. I ran into a sale.
However, no goat or sheep fur was sacrificed for my coat, whereas I think that's the case with non-faux cashmere. I think for mine, a few polyesters were cut out of the herd.
My friend Jayne, who reviews such purchases, reckoned the coat to be OK, but said that when we go somewhere, I need to keep my mouth shut about the fact that it's "faux" because she doesn't want people assuming she's also clad in faux. So to say anything would be a faux pas.
Aw, give me a break. You knew it was coming.