Bad Fashion

My wife has brought it to my attention lately (and often) that I am the polar opposite of a fashion whiz kid. You would know if it was me from a distance. My choice for bottoms is blue pajama pants with green dear heads on them; they are unmistakably Okie in style. I love them for one reason, they are comfortable. They are also buffet friendly; but it should be pointed out they are only good for three trips through at the maximum. I should also point out as a disclaimer that any more three trips through you could lose an eye with a poorly placed button. Nobody really knows why poor fashion choices take over as we get older, it just happens. It's like when you start yelling at the neighborhood kids to stay off your lawn when ten years ago you couldn't have cared less. I like to refer to this problem as an aging phenomenon.

The fashion problems all start out very innocently wearing them to your favorite take-out spot. That seems innocent enough, wouldn't you agree? But soon you find yourself wearing a terry clothed bath robe at the DMV hoping you don't see anyone you know. For certain it's a slippery slope. And we all know our problem has reached intervention status when whatever we are wearing we opt to skip putting on socks and instead reach for the mock leather house shoe with the hard rubber soles. Trying to ween a "comfort fanatic" off his favorite house shoes is akin to weaning a meth addict from buying battery acid in bulk. It won't be long before the sales guy at Payless will have to start making a copy of my driver's license every time, I buy a pair of shoes without laces and be limited two purchases per year like pseudoephedrine. Oh well, we all have our vices.

I'm sure the first thought of others who see me in public dressed as such is "oh the poor sap, he has given up" or "he must be homeless." My wife has made it crystal clear to me that she likes to see me in shirts that are tight around the biceps and a little snug around the sides and the neck. But I just cannot bring myself to do that. I freely admit I have chosen comfort over fashion, but somehow, I am not ashamed.

I hate tight fitting clothes like poison; I feel like when I am forced into wearing them it is a bit like being in prison. Let me state for the record just in case grandma Lightcap is looking down on all of this, I DO understand the rules of society. I understand that it's unadvisable to attend a funeral in a pair of cutoffs and a wife beater. You won't ever catch me at a parent teacher conference in a pair of dirty thermal underwear. But you might just catch me at Lowes early on a Saturday morning wearing my deer head pajama pants. I guess it's a good thing I am not a celebrity of some sort because I'd always be on the worst dressed list.

I don't know of any hard fast rules when it comes to dressing in public, but I am sure if there were I'd constantly be under arrest. My family makes more than enough money for me to step out in high fashion every day of the week, but I'd rather dress in homeless fashion. There is no getting around the idea that leather belts and neck ties are restricting and uncomfortable. My granny would be so disappointed. Yet I understand her frame of mind, when you grow up in the great depression you do everything you can to keep from feeling poor. Or in their case, something called PO.

I have carried my fashion sense all the way to how sleep. I refuse to sleep under a regular square sheet because a cotton quilt feels so good. I will sleep under it and wash it until it's literally not even sturdy enough to makes rags out of. Not unlike an old tee shirt that has been worn for years, a quilt doesn't really become comfortable until it has a thousand good snores under it. My family has picked up on my sickness and last year for Father's Day bought me a new quilt, but it was all I could do to part with the old one. In fact, truth be told I have not really parted with it because it is folded neatly in the bottom of my closet just in case of a quilt emergency. One never knows when I might bust it out on a Sunday afternoon for an NFL type nap on my living room couch. I'm sure my wife has had thoughts of having a burning ceremony for it like Linus's blanket on the cartoon strip Peanuts. But unless I am caught under it sucking my thumb, she probably has no cause to worry.

At that point she would likely just need to call in a professional and get an exorcism performed. My wife had a grandma on her dad's side everyone called Mimio. She was known for walking around the house in nothing but a cotton sheet. Some people call this behavior quirky, but I too may suffer from this affliction. Good luck Mimio, wherever you are. Who knew we were kindred spirits.