CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN

I thought I was doing well with the whole getting-dressed-each-day thing.

I mean, rarely a day goes by that I don't get the full ensemble together. Apparently, though, there is more to it than that. I base this on the comment that my wife made to me the other day: "We have GOT to take you clothes shopping."

That is never something you want to hear. Or, at least, I know it's something I don't want to hear, because I know it will involve: (1) shopping and (2) me.

I initially tried to put up a fight. "But I don't need new clothes!" I told her, waving my hand across my stylish wardrobe of shorts (completed with big rip in the rear) and T-shirts from college (complete with a melted emblem on the back from a malfunctioning dryer in 1994 and a collar that had roughly the same consistency as first aid gauze).

"I'm not talking about those clothes," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice. She knows that my bum clothes are here to stay. She was talking about the stuff that I was allowed to wear into public. Again, I offered up resistance.

"What is wrong with what I wear?"

My wife then put on her best "Law and Order" demonstration, presenting exhibit after exhibit. My favorite slacks had a belt loop that had broken free. I strategically tucked it every time I wore them.

My second favorite pair of slacks had lost a button many moons ago. A safety pin served in its place.

My favorite belt looked like someone had gone over it with a wood plane.

My favorite dress shoes had developed holes in the soles that captured rocks or acorns in them whenever I went outside, so I had tiny maracas trailing me everywhere I went.

With all of the evidence before me, I knew that I had no choice but to go shopping. While comfort and familiarity were key to me, my wife assured me that, in short time, I would be able to make new clothing friends.

We headed off to the store and I told my wife that I would go on a scout mission to narrow down my selections.

I sent her to the women's section while I started my hunt.

I knew that I could not start out with her with me, because she has this curious habit of being thorough. We would have gone rack to rack, checking everything.

I, on the other hand, will take a three minute power walk through the men's section, randomly identifying a few possibilities.

I figure my odds are that something will agree with my wife's taste, and I will be out of the store in no time.

I identified my potential candidates and found my wife. In the time it had taken me to take stock of the entire men's section, she had gone through a single rack of skirts.

Seventy black skirts were on a single aisle, and she was checking each one, as if one was suddenly going to have that little something the 69 other identical ones didn't.

We headed back to the men's section and I started with the shoes. I showed her a pair I liked.

She smiled a sweet, sympathetic smile, the kind you give a small child when he tells you that he is going to be an astronaut.

"Yes, dear, you can wear any shoes you want!" she said, tapping delicately on a different pair.

Next, we moved onto the pants. As usual, I had to ask my wife what size pants I wear.

It's not that I don't know. It's that I don't care. Once I get a pair of pants that fit, I see no need to remember the size.

That information is just taking up valuable space in my brain, space that could be used for important things, such as Mark McGwire's rookie year or every line from "Ghostbusters."

We (she) then identified several shirts. I summarily told her that I did not like them, for various reasons. She called my bluff and asked what, praytell, I didn't like about them. Consider them purchased.

She beamed with pride when I showed her the belt I had picked out and she concurred.

Perhaps she felt a little glimmer of pride that her dear, sweet, oaf of a husband was finally starting to get it. Ah, the beauty of random luck.

When I got all of my new clothes home, I was pleased to see that we (she) had picked out some fairly nice stuff.

My old stuff will be relegated to the bum section, so I can still wear them during off hours.

I'm just glad that I have endured the shopping experience.

Now I need to break in these clothes.