On dressing for me

I just went out in what has to be my most glamorous ensemble yet, so much so that I shall record it here for posterity:

-A black t-shirt, a decade old or thereabouts, and a hand-me-down to begin with.
-Neon-yellow running shorts.
-White socks.
-Brown leather boat-shoe-esque moccasins.

It's the kind of outfit that can only come about through wearing regular (if casual) clothes for part of the day (the shirt), then changing to run (the shorts), then not wanting to overuse pricey running sneakers and thus changing into loafers. As for the white socks, this is easily explained: a pack of three pairs at Uniqlo included black, gray, and white, and I wasn't feeling picky. And, eh, I'd been in the city to see friends twice this week, and both times involved putting on... well, it's all evening gowns compared to what I was strutting around in earlier this evening. (Jeans, or black pants, I think.) But just, like, aesthetically, for me, I found this get-up possibly too hideous. OK maybe for taking out the trash (because what isn't?) but for a full-on walk through the neighborhood? I briefly considered switching to old running sneakers, but then thought about laces, and the loafers won out.

As I was out walking Bisou, not seeing a soul as per usual in these parts in August, I contemplated how I'd play it, as it were, if I were to see someone I knew. Not what I'd say, exactly, but how I'd psychologically account for this ensemble. Would I imagine myself as a rustic Chloe Sevigny, my outfit so bad it's actually good? If I were not me, but some kind of French it-girl, the look would seem insouciant and effortless-yet-intentional. And then I remembered: everyone I know here is a scientist. (Some are quite chic, but they tend not to judge.) No, this really was all about my own horror at what I'd somehow managed to put on.