Closet Confessions
By: Linda McCarthy
The other day I cleaned out my closet. I was shocked and dismayed to discover the condition of my husband’s wardrobe. The elbows have worn through most of his shirts and he has 37 pairs of pants: all khakis, all tan.
I suppose my mother would blame me. I remember her ironing my father’s shirts until well into the night. She would have noticed something like that and corrected it right away. Somehow it was her responsibility that my father be dressed each day. She never took him shopping. She would hand him a bag of clothes and say, "wear this."
Each generation is different. My husband leaves for work very early in the morning. He usually wakes me up just before he goes and asks, "Does this match?" If I say, "Yes," he scurries out the door. If I say, "No," he scurries out the door. I can’t figure out why he keeps asking. I guess ever since he grew out of Garanimals, getting dressed has been a challenge for him. It was much easier when matching animal tags assured you would be perfectly coordinated.
I decided it was my wifely duty to try and help him. I went shopping in an effort to solve his fashion dilemma. I got to the mall early so there were no crowds, sales everywhere and plenty of stock to choose from. It would have been perfect except for one thing: He was with me. I knew I was in trouble when he insisted on bringing his coffee into the store. Right away that told me he wasn’t interested. He stood there sipping while I held up every pair of pants in Macy’s for his review.
Finally, in exasperation, I said, "Either get serious about this or we’re leaving." An elderly woman within earshot started giggling. She said to me, "Dear, I left mine in the car. Next time bring a newspaper and lock him in so he doesn’t wander."
Suddenly I realized this was a universal problem that transcended time and space. The only solution was to take the path of least resistance. I decided then and there: No more arguing and insisting. Whatever he wanted was fine with me.
He finally progressed to the point of trying some things on. The men’s fitting rooms come equipped with a TV, leather couches and optimal lighting. I sat next to a woman who was clearly battle weary. She smiled and offered, "This is the fifth store and he can’t decide on anything. After trying on 97 pairs of pants, you would think we’d be done by now. Everything I like, he doesn’t."
Just then her husband emerged from the dressing room. He stood there, staring blankly and waiting for her approval. They both knew what she said wouldn’t matter. The pants he had on were up past his ankles, his belly was hanging over the waistband and he had an atomic wedgie.
He said, "I like these."
She said, "Me too."
Then he turned to me and asked my opinion. At first I hesitated, but suddenly I was awash in solidarity. I told him, "You look incredible."
Satisfied, he turned to change into his old clothes. The woman squeezed my hand. It was the secret handshake of a long-suffering sorority of which I had become a proud member.
Linda McCarthy resides in Robbinsville with her husband and three children.

