Before reading this post you must accept the following disclaimer. Please read the disclaimer, close your eyes and nod to confirm and acknowledge:
I acknowledge whereby reading said blog entry I hereby indemnify said author from any and all thoughts, accusations or premonitions of being anything less than a man’s man.
I certify said author loves to wrestle farm animals, brush his teeth with Johnnie Walker Red, roll his own cigarettes and watch MMA marathons. In fact, said author would rather sit through a symposium on global affairs with “The Situation” and Paris Hilton than watch one minute of Lifetime or the Oprah network.
I hate my clothes.
Not all of my clothes, not all of the time, but I hate my clothes.
I go into the closet each morning and try to fill out the lineup card. Suits, ties, shirts. In my next life I'm coming up with garanimals menswear.
A couple of suits are designated strictly for “spot start and long relief.” Don't like 'em, and I'm not sure how they got there. Most times when I wear them I go ahead and pile on with an "emergency call up tie" and "designated for assignment" shirt.
I don't part with clothes. Some are icons. And if it was good enough for the Carter administration it's bound to come back.
I once owned a suit for nearly 20 years that despite my best efforts always looked presentable, on the outside. My Rasputin suit. On the inside it looked like an episode of “Seamstress Gone Wild.”
I don't part with clothes. Rock bottom was when my daughter, then nine, turned to me at a hockey game and asked “How long have you had that shirt?” Think break dancing, then add a few years.
I hate to shop (guy + no shop = redundant). I'd rather run from a tornado in high heels.
I've been shopping with the wife. Twice. Each time, the salesperson initially turned bug eyed with a joyful, "I just broke the bank" look, picturing Taina as Gunther Gebel-Williams and me as the hapless lion.
We all nodded in agreement for a few minutes until things quickly deteriorated. My problem is that I am the most amenable shopper on earth until I am left to make a decision, at which point I breathe fire and we're forced to add the store to our list of "places we can never return."
So I learned.
I’ve evolved, and as they say, the only normal people are the ones we don't know very well.
I use a frames for my posters instead of tape. I drink from a glass instead of swigging from the bottle.
And I use duct tape and nod at department stores.