Lest you suspect I’ve become a baseball aficionado, allow me to explain the concept of my personal bullpen. I have this beautiful walk in closet (about the size of the room many of you had as a child. Ok, maybe not, but a good size nonetheless. Bigger than what Harry Potter got under the Dursley’s stairs, I’ll bet.) where I plan my outfits. Strategizing worthy of any boardroom takeover occurs there. Some day Ivanka Trump will hire me to do the same for her, I’m that good.
Once every two weeks, I’ll spend an hour or so creating outfits for the coming days. Armed with Lucky magazine pages, I pick and choose colors and fabrics to create outfits for the coming work weeks. By planning in advance, I can (barely) get out of the house in about an hour or so in the mornings. No plan? Seriously late!! I envy those people who tell me they ‘just grab’ or ‘whatever I feel like that morning’ it. Wow. Come the weekend, it takes me forever to pick something! For some reason I rarely plan weekend clothes. I have to know where I’m going, and my weekends aren’t that structured. Some I don’t even get dressed at all. When cleaning the house, sometimes my sweats don’t really match my T-Shirt. Don’t tell anybody! Please! It’s my little secret.
Anyhoo, I created some spectacular ensembles yesterday, and I’m quite proud of myself! Turquoise and brown, Fuchsia and dark olive, animal print vests, and even a subdued navy with grey. Found some awesome combos using an oriental-themed scarf with several turquoise and black pieces. Why does this excite me? Why can’t my passion be curing AIDS? Saving orphans? When they were handing out ‘sense of direction’ I was in the ‘fashion accessorizing and color sense’ line, and I got so turned around, I went through about three times and never did find that directional line…
Stop me before I shop again! Or should I say, before I have to take Mr. Right shopping ever again…
Al said he needed some new pants for work. So we agreed that would make a great Christmas gift, and that waiting until after the holiday would be best. I envisioned taking him to a ‘real’ store, but he suggested a Friday night excursion to Kohl’s. Ok. Whatever. We meet there after work, each in our own vehicle.
Taking a bored eight-year-old would have been easier. A little more whiney, but they most likely would have let me do the picking. Al is from the Homer Simpson school of pants.
“What do you mean they don’t make those any more? I’ve been buying them for twenty years! No more blue? What do you mean I need a bigger size?”
Yep. Fifty thousand pairs of pants in twenty seven colors and we’re there to get two in black, maybe one in navy, too. Just compare that with the above, and you’ll wonder how on earth we ever got together. It’s easy, really. He has the most wonderful sense of direction.
Now Al might be many things, but tall is not one of them. So why is he enamored of pants with pleats?? Or in denial about his inseam? You know the old joke about women lying about their age? I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t lie about his height. Ok, some of the tall ones don’t, but stay with me here.
So loaded up with sixteen permutations of black, pleats, machine wash; he enters the changing room. Only to re-emerge moments later asking me to go over to the shoe section and grab some dress shoes. Oh, and a dress shirt, too. For try-on purposes.
“You shop once a year, and can’t dress properly for the occasion?” I grumble.
“Do you like these?,” he asks.
No, I say, stifling a snicker as I look at the cuffed bottom that is bunched above the shoe, and the billowing pleats that make him look like MC Hammer. “Well, they’re really comfortable,” he sniffs, heading back to the cube. Hey, at least I know enough to pull over and ask for directions. Why can’t he accept my help?
Now, I’m not one to talk when it comes to being in denial as to one’s waist size, but inseam? Finally, he finds some a little shorter, and some that have the Magic Adjustable Waistband. This is the male version of ‘downsizing’ that has been taking place in ladies clothing since the 1950s. Back then a size ten fit most starlets, and Marilyn Monroe was frequently larger. Now that same size has been repurposed to about a size 6, to give women a psychological boost in thinking they are a small size. In Hollywood and the local high school, the prestige size is a 0. That’s right, 0. Much has been made of the psychological angle of striving to be a nothing, and the marginalization of women, blah, blah, blah. Hey, I’d be thrilled with a big fat 2.
I try handing Al some other suggestions. You know, colors. Rejected. Wait! He takes a dark green! Whee! Four Pants! It’s only three hours later, and we’re ready for socks! ZZZZZZZ….
Men’s socks are another way the industry takes advantage of the fact men only shop once a year. They are bundled in units of three, then the store runs ‘buy two, get one free’. The packages are $14 each! Most of my socks come from the clearance rack and cost a buck, perhaps two at the most, a pair. But of course, I have what, 50, 60 pairs? So do the math.
I see Al buys two black packages and one green. I don’t even argue. It is a pretty dark navy, but I would die of mortification if caught with black socks and blue pants.
Whatever. At least I got to follow him home that night, so there was a lesser chance of getting lost…
Score!!
Antler Envy!
(Onions everywhere cried with relief.)
