My local shopping district, a cute and happily robust cluster of antique shops, fabric stores, and casual dining trends, hosted an event for World Dracula Day, celebrating the anniversary of the first release of Bram Stoker’s novel.
I thought, what better way to take advantage of the fact that I dress like (let’s be honest) Doctor Who on an extended 1889 story arc. Off I went to diligently assemble an appropriately sepulchral ensemble. Aside from lacking long hair and having the wrong shade of top hat, I managed a very satisfactory homage to Gary Oldman in that grey suit (or Lucien Vaudrey if you nasty.)
In other words I looked great. I look good in suits in general, and this outfit was so satisfying that I decided not to wear it to the vampire party. That is to say, I looked just how I like to look on the day to day, and the thought of calling it a costume was…
It was fucking cringe, alright? It felt like I was making a joke about myself. I am very, very aware that I dress differently than almost everyone alive (that’s much of the point) and so maybe I overthink my aesthetic, but there’s so little joy that we’re permitted in this economy that I’ve leaned way in on this thing that persistently brings me joy. It seems to make other people happy too, for the number of compliments I get. Someone dressed in plus-fours and a waistcoat is not an ordinary sight. You’re welcome.
But it’s just my ordinary clothes. It’s not a costume. Or if it is, then every single one of us are wearing costumes every day.

This is the larger truth, that we are all doing drag, every single day. We *choose* how we want to look, even when we’re not aware of it. Every time we get dressed, we are choosing which part of ourselves to present, depending not just on our moods but on the context, and if you don’t think that’s true, go ahead put on sweats and crocs then try talking to the CEO of your company the way you talk to the people you play sports with on the weekend. If that’s the same person, congrats, you’ve won capitalism.
Regarding my excellent self in the mirror last Saturday, the serendipitous collection of grey apparel that when put one with the other seemed to have been made for the sole purpose of becoming this suit. I was too happy to want to stain it with the frivolity of pretending I wouldn’t dress exactly like this every day. I mean, the ultimate cop-out Hallowe’en costume is to just put on what you wear to work, right? Costumes should transport, make fantastic, startle and confound. This outfit was simply too good.
Bloody shame I’m such a snob, though. I hear there were prizes.














