I have been reduced to doing fashion makeovers in the subway. On our morning ride downtown, a man, about 35, took the seat directly across from me. With my daughter taking a commuter’s snooze on my lap I was just casually looking around. And my eyes rested precariously on his rather large shoes.

They were mottled burgundy oxfords with a wide, rounded toe and thick soles. The shape of the toe, their color, and their rather large girth had “clown shoes” written all over them. Not as big, of course. But the vision of those oversized bulbous foot coverings only seen under the big top refused to leave me. I began to look elsewhere but I couldn’t help myself. I kept returning to those shoes.

While I am an observant fellow, an artist and photographer with a decent sense of style (in my svelter days I wore vintage clothes from the 1940s and still collect men’s neckties from that period), fashion makeovers are not my usual modus operandi. Since my recent weight loss, however, (a 20 lb./9 kg. sack around my waist) I have noticed I am more conscious of my own dress. Obviously I had now moved on to critiquing others’ with a particularly odd vengeance.

In my defense, my family routines have been totally out of kilter for the last month. My wife went away for two weeks and I became sole parent to my two young ones: a gratifying, yet stressful state of affairs. And right after her glorious return my sister came to visit us for a week. Playing tourist and constant talks about old family craziness were not only exhausting, they left no time for my own internal processes.

Despite our normally overextended family life, I usually can find respites for myself and my creative urges. Without these moments of solitude I had been dreaming heavily and vividly for the last five nights. This morning’s aberration must have just been an extension of these basic human needs. If I had no control over my life, I seemed to be attempting to control a complete stranger’s. But I digress.

Were his shoes an aberration as well? I gave him the total once-over. Yes, men do look at men on occasion. He had a very long oval face. His haircut, short on the sides and longer on top, along with his below-the-ear sideburns, only emphasized his head’s length. No doubt about it. It was the wrong haircut for him. More bizarrely, I wanted to tell him so. Luckily, my daughter’s own head anchored me to my seat and I nonchalantly put my hand over my mouth to prevent any outbursts. I had prior convictions interacting with subway audiences.

That sound. I am driving my daughter to school. We have been on the road for almost an hour, twice as long as it should take us to get downtown. And we are almost there. She sits in her backseat booster and if I angle the rearview mirror just so, I can see her forehead and right eye. Snow banks continue to trespass on city streets, chocking our commute to a crawl. It is a long cold ride. As I listen to the news, the winds of winter fight the winds of the Iraqi War. The heat is blasting. And that...

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