The Importance of Not Dressing Like a Meth Addict: Five Simple Words

You'd be hard pressed to find a quintet of words in the English language that rival the always complicated and never humorous  "I ran into my ex". Those fateful words usually elicit the delightful Charlie-ism 'Ohhhhhhhh shit.' Of course, not all exes are created equal: they come in all shapes and sizes. There are those that you're indifferent bordering on affable to that you never see, and those that, upon remembering, conjure up a moment of puzzlement before the magic tone of recognition is struck and you think to yourself 'Ohhhhh yeah...that guy. No harm, no foul,' you shrug. 

But for those special few that still reside in your general vicinity as well as under your skin, the importance of not dressing like a meth addict is painfully clear. I'm not saying throw on your faux mink coat and strap your feet into sky-high short man soul crushers for every late night Wally World somnambulation or emergency beer run at 11:54PM. What I am saying is that the jammy jams should stay at home, lest you be caught in an awkward situation with an ex in public. I would say that on any given day, I dress like an average, reasonably put-together person. But for those four or five times a year when I look like Courtney Love on an off day, I'm almost guaranteed to run into an ex.
So far it's happened at the grocery store twice (who dresses up to go to the grocery store? This gal, now) and not even the fancy Super Target that everyone goes to to be seen; the P.O.S. Kroger chain that seems to be under perpetual renovation. I mean, come on! 
Another time, I was on my way to getting my oil changed and I thought to myself 'I should have dressed nicer, but who cares? It's just an oil change.' Au contraire. While I was in the waiting room fingering the small hole in my cotton work out pants and contemplating the cleanliness of my shirt (Did I sleep in this? Am I wearing deodorant? Today's deodorant?) one of my exes walked in. He did the classic double take followed by a quick evaluation of all available exits. I was glued to my chair, also evaluating possible escape routes before remembering that my car was being worked on. So we sat, and made occasional small talk for what seemed like an eternity until my car was ready. I tried to mask my hurry to get out of there, but it's like the knee-clutching bit on Family Guy: it just gets more awkward with time.

It's not that I feel as if I have anything to prove to these unfortunate members of my past, because that's why they are exes in the first place. But by the same token, the fact that they are exes means that there was (at the very least) a lack of communication and mutual understanding that makes any further interactions frustrating and futile. Yet we still feel compelled to maintain a neutral facade to appease the need for social order. In order to reduce the stress of these two opposing forces, I find it helpful to dress like a (reasonably) sane person so as to behave like one. Fake it til you make it, right? Besides, when you're in sudden close proximity to someone who makes you slap your forehead on numerous occasions, you at least want to have the pleasure of looking good while doing it.