The Poor Sod came in a little late one day after work. I didn't think much of it, until I saw him walk through the door swinging a Zellers bag.
"I picked up some new work pants," he explained as he tugged off his work boots.
"You what?" I asked. There was no disguising the alarm in my voice.
"Be quiet. It's fine. I mean, they're just work pants," he replied.
This wonderful man can fix leaky roofs. He can dispatch wildlife bare-handed. He vacuums, he drives kids around, and he does grocery shopping. He shovels, rakes and mows. He paints, plasters and folds laundry.
He cannot buy pants. Soon after we started dating, I mentioned that he might want to get rid of the one pair of jeans he had that were a bit too short. Turns out it wasn't one pair, it was all of them.
I asked if he'd ever had a girlfriend before. To this day, I still tell myself I was the first.
Recognizing that a little fashion impairment is hardly a deal killer (and to be honest, in my son's hoodie and torn up army pants, I'm no prize myself), I just started going with him, or, more often, just bringing home the right jeans. Like Ari, 15, he isn't a fussy dresser. Both prefer clothes to just show up when required, something I'm happy to accommodate to avoid the tears and meltdowns in the stores. Mine.
Hesitantly, I pulled 3 identical pairs of jeans from the red bag.
"Um, honey, these are the wrong size," I said, to nobody's surprise.
"No, they're not."
"Yeah, they're a 30 leg. You're a 32," I told him. Gently.
"They're fine," he replied. I didn't ask if he'd tried them on. I knew he hadn't even held them up in the store.
"Okay, we'll go with the idea that you shrank two inches overnight. Since when do you wear painter pants?" I asked, regarding the various loops and pockets in the baggy jeans.
"What? They're painter pants?" he asked, finally looking up.
"Better try them," I said, handing them over.
Reluctantly, he pulled them on. We both stared down at his feet. And his ankles. And the miles of excess fabric that billowed around his legs.
"I don't know if that's the look for you," I said. I was stalling, trying to think of how to tell him if a good wind came up, he would be blown across the street.
"Actually, I'll return them to get the length right, but I think this might be a good style for work." There was no way he was going to cave on all parts of this. I pictured him stomping around the job site, hammers and snips hanging from the myriad loops and pockets.
"I think the other boys are going to laugh at you," I told him. He left the room.
He did exchange them for longer ones, but he also stuck with his new look. He came in after work one day after test driving the first pair. He works long days that begin early, and at first I chalked up his quiet demeanour to being tired. He tugged on his boot laces as I took his lunch cooler.
"How was your day?" I asked, as I always ask.
"Fine," he replied, as he always replies.
"Dinner's in. How'd the new jeans work?" I believe in pointing out the elephant in the room.
"I'm wearing clown pants," he said, succinctly.
We haven't mentioned the clown pants again.
But I notice they've migrated to the bottom of the pile.
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I would give anything to be in a room with you, as long as you weren't looking at me, or if I was just hiding in a closet and could watch you name everyone else's elephants...or maybe I'll just stay home.
At one point, his factory gave them the option of renting uniforms from a uniform and laundry company. Some of his friends did so. One was a very tall, 6'4" or 6'5" skinny guy. After the first week, they put a note in with his dirty uniforms saying "My pants are four inches too long. I have to roll them up. I need shorter pants." So then for a week he was stuck wearing major flood pants till he sent back a note himself saying he needed longer pants. His friends took the note out. And so on and so on.
It was months before the company got his pants size set right in their records permanently.
You are living proof that having a sense of humor can overcome or even head-off the silly problems in everyday life that usually wind up crushing us.
Oh, and you write about it in the most entertaining way.
Then a little bald guy with an accent came out of the back, with a ruler, pins, etc. He measured the cuffs. They 'broke' at the shoes. You paid. They gave you a ticket. You came back in 3 days.
Not so much, anymore.
That's why men's trousers tend to fit like absolute hell these days.
"Clothes are the lowest priority for an engineer, assuming that the basic thresholds for temperature and decency have been satisfied. If no appendages are freezing or sticking together, and if no genitalia or mammary glands are swinging around in plain view, then the objective of clothing has been met. Anything else is a waste." - Scott Adams, The Dilbert Principle
To truly pull this off, though, you have to be borderline-Asperger's (and hence, not care what others think) or the other kids have to play along. Also, if you stick with it long enough, you can sometimes start a trend. Put those pants back on the top of the pile!
This is a sad and accurate description of a normally functioning Y chromosome which has, once again, invited cynical mocking and borderline invective misandry toward the innocent carriers of the aforementioned chromosome.
Terrific post - as usual.
Rated and appreciated.
“’I don't know if that's the look for you,’ I said. I was stalling, trying to think of how to tell him if a good wind came up, he would be blown across the street.” -still ginning at that line.
Oh, and Melissa (mamoore)? I would love a job pointing out elephants. What fun!
I like to make the elephant the focal point of any room. I do that with a set of portable spots, some streamers and a little Febreeze.
You need to nip this little play for shopping independence in the bud, and it sounds like you have, but be ever vigilant. If he ever tries that again, you must remind him of the clown pants. Spotlight the elephant; shoot the streamers, spray the Febreeze with abandon.
I know of what I speak. Once they dig in their heels in those ugly, too-small shoes, there is no going back.
I do massive loads of bad fashion laundry. At least we're clean.
great writing.
Yes, men tend to not know what is flatterring (god that looks so weird--is that right?) on them. Thats why they have us.
;-)
Send him with the boys. Guaranteed they will return with lots of clothes, a smile, and the smell of alcohol on their breath. You may have just given surley a new idea.
You have only yourself to blame.
Great post. Guys everywhere are saluting your husband and silently giving thanks for your subtle rescue.
Well hell...okay, so I'm guilty. Great post.
Rated.
I actually don't much care how dorkily men dress. I mean, I draw the line at tucked in sweaters and socks with sandals (SHUT UP, CHRIS BROWN!), but other than that, uncork the wine and pass me the chips.
Funny piece anyway, Catbox.
R
You know your name is another name for, er, catbox, right John?
Oh, and bright blue drawstring shorts that only came to about mid-thigh.
And black dress socks.
And white Velcro sneakers.
All at once.
I will never bother the Poor Sod again...
Ari is my go-to man for fashion advice. He'll calmly nod or shake his head as I hold up shoes. But unfortunately, both boys would prefer I dress like an Amish grandmother when I go out....
My dad on the other hand: plaid seersucker shorts, pale blue and white striped terry, mid-calf socks, short-sleaved dress-shirt and don't forget the white shoes and belt! And he wondered why I didn't want to be seen with him when I was a teen?!!!
I don't have the Dreyerhaus shirt on here, but he's wearing his second-favorite one, the bright-orange YMCA one.
And the picture from Clifty Falls in 87 or 88 is a good example of his favorite blue shorts, black dress socks, and giant white Velcro sneakers.
My father once bought 6 pairs of Levis on sale at a flea market. They were light purple. They were 3 dollars each. He overpaid.
He used to saw off rubber wellies at ankle height to garden in. With shorts riding low, and no shirt.
And he had a leisure suit.
He also once bought (no doubt at a flea market) a shirt with all these photographs of faces on it. He called it his hippy dippy shirt. My father would have been 83 this year. Not so hippy. Not so dippy.
Thanks for the link;)
It's possible I'm the anomaly - I once shared a house with 3 gay men (among others) and they often deferred to my fashion advice. But then they were bears, and flannel shirts and shorts were de rigeur.
pastel blue, teal and pink plaid golf pants - absolutely horrid, stood out from the vintage store racks like a beacon, calling to me.
I still have the bright orange Hoboken Exterminating t-shirt, with the large dead roach on it, that I got in high school - which makes it older than some of you reading this.
Your poor wife.
I loved reading this.
Rated.
I have ordinary.
Thoth, I'm Canadian;) Apparently bad taste doesn't need a passport.
I also agree with O'Really, although I did date an exception AND HE WAS MILANESE. He appeared one evening in a pair of woven rattan slippers that gave his feet the approximate dimensions of two picnic baskets. He's now living in Miami, so perhaps Italy refused his reentry for 'i crimine di mode'.
Who's Uncle Charlie? Blumenthal?
(I'm so gonna pay for that...)
Rated
That and not hogging the covers.