Sartorial splendor.

I love my wife. She loves me. But after 28+ years she’s trying to fix me more often and I’m not sure I’m really broken.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not exactly a model for GQ. Matter of fact, I’m regularly mistaken for a homeless man and accorded the same suspicion and looks simply based on my clothing choices, wild looking beard, and ever present stocking cap.

Why would this face make anyone nervous?

I almost never donate used clothing to charities: it’s usually too worn out to be accepted.

This has lead to some interesting conversations in high-class establishments. When I ask to see some bauble/gun/electronic device that’s behind the glass the clerks are suspicious. I would be as well. I think the only things that sway them are that I enunciate fairly well and my odor isn’t too profound.

I live by the abiding principle that until the crotch dissapears and the collar has the stays poke through the thing probably has some more life in it. I have shirts older than many college freshmen.

My clothes buying philosophy works like this: Each pair of my old socks that I discover with a hole in it gets chucked in the trash (after careful consideration of whether or not it might prove useful in cleaning guns before disposal.) I will eventually realize that I’m down to 12 mismatched socks and I have to go to Walmart. I then purchase 36 pairs of socks. Same for underwear – one stop shopping at UnderArmor and their lovely outlet page. A week later 9 pairs of compression shorts turn up on the front porch.

Jeans? Why I simply head to Mill’s Fleet Farm and buy 6 pairs of the exact same thing I’ve been wearing for the last 20 years. Put them all in the wash for 3 cycles to get the dye out of them and then rotate them through the laundry until they wear out as well.

Shoes are a little more complicated: I head to Run N Fun and grab 3 pairs of the latest version of my model 1123 sneaker. I always have one unopened box somewhere in my room. Heaven knows New Balance might quit making them and I must be prepared.

Evidently my wife isn’t going with my program any longer. Two weeks ago she presented me with a very nice shirt for Christmas. It was from Cabela’s. She assured me that it was on a deeply discounted sale. It met my requirements in that it had a collar, long sleeves I could roll up, two pockets, and it didn’t have any logos on it that I could see. The shirt had one defect – it wasn’t a Tall. I’m a husky kid (big boned just like Eric Cartman, but a different value sysem) and I need the Tall size in addition to the “fat guy” special width. I’m long in the waist and regular shirts don’t tuck in for me and stay there. It was true when I was skinny, more true now that I try to smuggle watermelons under the shirt.

I kept it, stained it the first time I wore it, and asked her to send the other shirt back. It wasn’t a tall size so I had an excuse. Only one for me!

Yesterday I spotted a big box in the dining room. “What’s in the box, Honey?” Shirts. Eight of them. All in tall, all in my size, five different colors, all the same pattern. On sale.

Saturday morning I went through my closet and retired 3 shirts. It’s all my cheap nature would allow. After all, some of those other shirts are only 10 years old! Lots of life left in them. Maybe tomorrow I can bring myself to part with a few more of them.

And, maybe she’s right. Looking like I’m seeking a free shopping cart and a bridge to live under isn’t very becoming of a fellow who aspires to great things in the literary world. I even bought a suit last year. Could this be the end of me?

So, what’s in your dresser that your spouse hates? Do you have one completely crummy set of clothes that gives your better-half the hives when you wear them? And if not, why not?

Comments

Sartorial splendor. — 3 Comments

  1. Please, please, PLEASE promise us that you won’t be donating your sox and undies cast offs to the next contest on the blog!

    I said PLEASE! 🙂

    • Promise. I won’t give them away on the blog. They are already on the way to your house via U.S. Mail.