Clothing Isn't Optional

I hate buying clothes. There are so many other things I would rather be tortured with, instead, like cleaning the garbage cans, doing my taxes, and listening to screaming kids. There are also a million other things I would rather spend my money on, such as more writing supplies and books. Always books.

It’s not that I don’t like new clothes, because I do. I just hate shopping for them. It’s a hassle that sucks up hours away from my pen. However, invariably, the girls will grow weary of looking at my Angry Bird boxers where jean material should be and I will be hauled off to replenish my failing wardrobe, kicking and screaming. It happened just this past weekend; half a Saturday spent wandering around in stores picking out pants that I prayed would fit.

They didn’t.

Of course, I tried to avoid the whole humiliating experience by popping into Lids and picking out a new hat. “Okay, I’ve got what I need. I’m done. Let’s go home.”

“Robbie, you cannot walk around town in just your hat.”

“I have clothes.”

“None of them fit and the ones that do have so many holes in them that you might as well be naked.”

“I rarely leave the house. I’m okay with being naked.”

They weren’t okay with it and so we wound up at some outlet clothing store, because while they can make me buy clothes, they can’t make me spend a fortune on them.

We picked out eight pairs to start with and by “we” I mean the girls told me I was going to try them on. I had at least been able to say what style I wanted and from there they took it away. Before I knew it the cart was full and I was being steered to the dressing room. The limit of clothing allowed was six at this particular outlet, but the lady felt sorry for me and permitted me to take the eight pairs in at once. It wasn’t really necessary, because once I tried the first pair on the girls had to go swap each pair out for the next size fatter. Of course, they kept promising me it was only due to the cut of the pants and had nothing to do with the size of my Chunky Monkey ice cream belly.

Not only have I gained weight around my middle, but I’ve shrunk two inches, as well. I am saying it is due to gravity pulling me closer to the ground that my middle has started to bulge. I used to have a 34 inch inseam. However, it has dropped down to 32 and I have no idea why? I am not old enough to be losing height, yet. It is sad that my numbers have switched. When I was twenty-one, my measurements were 28 by 34. Now, I have shrunk and my waist is bigger than my inseam. It’s not fair what age and a sit down job will do to your body.

I was in the dressing room trying to tuck everything within the circus tent I was trying on when I walked out and stared at the ring of mirrors right outside of my door. Suddenly, I just stood and gawked at myself in mid-tuck. I looked like the old man I used to make fun of when I was younger who had to feel around for his belt loop because he couldn’t see it and who tilted as he tucked in his shirt. When the hell did that happen?

Out of the eight pairs I took in with me only four fit, so we traipsed back over to the men’s section and picked out another pair of jeans. Of course I couldn’t just say they would fit because the other one’s that size fit. I had to try them on. So back into the fitting room I went with its cruel mirrors. Luckily, I was right and they fit. However, by the time I had tried those on, the girls had found another pair for me to squeeze into. It was at this point that I decided I was wearing flip flops the next time we went shopping because constantly bending over to put my shoes back on was too much like exercise. If I kept it up I would have to return all of the pants I just tried on for a smaller size and then I would be trying them all on again. It seems a vicious cycle.

The one thing I like about shopping, however, is the fact that I know where to go. The male gender only has two sections - Boy’s and Men’s. The ladies are not so lucky and just glancing over there is confusing. They have to wade through a list of synonyms that to me all mean the same thing but to them signifies quite a difference. Juniors. Petite. Misses. Women’s. They even go backwards in how they size things. I saw an area of jeans that had Regular, Skinny, and then Super Skinny. Men don’t get this consideration, either. We have Men’s and if we can’t find anything there we have to go to the Big & Large stores. They don’t even try to help our esteem. It’s like they enjoy telling us our size is freakish and then announce it to the rest of the world. There is no diplomacy.

I struggled through, however, and survived the shopping spree, even able to keep my new hat. I should be clothed for another decade, at least, and able to avoid having to endure this embarrassment again. By then maybe it will be a nudist world and I won’t have to worry about it at all. We can only hope. Or, at least, I hope. The girls, however, are buying stock in tent material to keep me covered.

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