Tricked into shopping trip
It finally happened, my wife found a way to trick me into buying a new shirt.
It’s not that I don’t like having nice things, or looking nice, or what have you. Well, to be honest, I might. But the overriding issue is that I just hate buying clothes.
The whole experience of going into a store to think about how I look, and then paying for the privilege, seems like such a colossal waste of time and effort. If I wanted retrospection and self-loathing, I’d save some money and just go to confession. (Get off my back, I’ll go. I’ll go.)
This aversion to shopping leaves me looking a little ragged at times. Or, most of the time. When I find an article of clothing I like, I’m going to wear it. A lot. Over and over again.
Mind you, this does not mean I don’t wear clean clothes. I just have a pretty small rotation of clothes I like, that wear out and fade, get torn and holey, maybe pick up some odd stains despite being washed. I’ll keep wearing them as long as I possibly can. Part of the reason is comfort; part of it is I may be deranged. My wardrobe keeps folks on their toes, I suppose.
Look, it’s not my fault of total strangers slip me a couple of dollars to “get a bite to eat” when I’m walking around downtown just because of my wardrobe. I wasn’t standing there with my hand out!
My wife is pained when she sees me wearing certain shirts out of the house. She’s less thrilled by a couple of my sweaters. Even my daughters think I look a little hoboish at times. I would do something about this, but it would mean shopping for clothes, and I have clothes. Yes, my khakis have a tear where the puppy bite through them. Yes, a lot of my dress shirts have collars that are disintegrating. That black thing I wear in winter is still technically a sweater.
OK. Maybe I have a problem.
Rather than shoot me with a tranquilizer dart and lug me to a store, my wife, who knows me better than anyone, used beer to trick me into shopping.
It started last night when I offered to take her out of the house for up to 90 consecutive minutes without the children. After close to 20 years of marriage, this is a bigger deal than you would think.
My plan was to find a place we could grab a beer and have a conversation that did not include diaper changes, Dr. Who arguments, or whatever it is the dog is saying. He’s whinier than the kids.
My wife loves to pack as many doing-things-without-children activities as she can into one trip. She loves, say, stopping at the grocery store to pick up some flour or milk right after our anniversary date. Doesn’t matter what or where, she got to go out and go to two places.
Knowing that I know this, she said she wanted to go buy something at this store she had talked up. For months she would try and tell me about the good deals, or the designer labels I could find on shirts at this place. Like I cared. I have a nice dress shirt, as long as no one noticed the battery acid holes in the front pocket.
So, the trick worked. When we got a blanket, and she steered me over to the shirts, and she was right. There were many nice shirts in my size that do not have pen or marker squiggles on them.
Because I may or may not be insane, I decided to just get one shirt “To see how it works out.” It’s a shirt. It doesn’t “work out.” You just wear it. I realize I have the problem. I will get back there and buy some more shirts, and maybe a new sweater too. Maybe. I mean, I just got a shirt. It should last me for several years.
Damien Fisher and his newish shirt can be reached at 594-1245 or firstname.lastname@example.org or @Telegraph_DF.