A while back I shared a tale with you about an experience I had with some snooty retail bitches, and their inability to summon the common decency needed to point out a man’s…shortcomings.
It was my hope that in doing so, I was sending a message to the Universe asking for decency to be shown to those of us who could not care for ourselves.
Now a little backfill. Or landfill. Some kind of fill.
You see, I hate buying clothes. As in, with the heat of a Nova, I hate buying clothes. And to slip into a subtype of that statement, I ABHOR buying clothing for WORK. Suits, ties, dress shoes…if it is more than about 6 bucks you have to basically drag me into Kohl’s by my nipples to get me to spend on career apparel.
The direct result of hating clothes shopping is that I will wear my clothes until they are essentially…unwearable.
Now fast forward to last week. Hang on, this gets bumpy.
On that fateful and humbling Thursday morning, I stood amongst the screams of my children and “Honey don’t forgets” and dressed for work. I donned the undergarments of my trade, the black socks that daily make me feel as though I am 64 years ancient, and pulled on my dress pants for Day 4 of the same suit.
Yes, Day 4.
See, in my line of work, no one sees you 2 days in a row. So I can very easily wear the same suit all week, send it to the drycleaner, and wear a new one the following week. I only have to change undergarments, shirts and ties each day to create the guise of hygiene. It’s about economy.
As I had all week, I pulled on my dress pants, admiring how well they were fitting the svelte version of me, and walked into the other room, all the time working on my excuse to get out of whatever it was she was asking me to remember to do. I fumbled my excuse, she shot it to pieces, and I began my retreat to the bedroom to get my dress shirt.
My wife, who undoubtedly is part of a government subsidized program to care for the needy and incapable, suddenly gasps, “Oh my God, honey”!!
I whip around, ready to bat away whatever huge frickin’ bug is sitting on my shoulder, or to frantically look for a defibrillator before I slip from consciousness, and I scream, “WHAT??!! WHAT??!!”
“You can’t wear those pants.”
I don’t know how many receptionists watch me as I walk away throughout the course of the day. Probably not too many.
I don’t know how many baristas giggle after I get my coffee. Maybe a few.
And I have no idea how many days I have been developing my new Bunner Vent.
But I know that as I beg the Universe for leniency, my pleas are going unanswered. I am only thankful that my wife graciously picks me up after my humiliating stumbles.
So what am I afraid of?
Mostly that my children are watching me, and learning.