Meet Ken

     Who's that flashy guy in the light (almost white!) flat-front slim-fit summer slacks?  Who's that ray of sunshine turning heads with those garishly multi-hued stripes bursting forth from his bright blue shirt?  Who is that fashion plate, that Beau Brummel, that clothes horse dressed to impress, the dude stepping out with the snazziest duds?

     I must confess: it's me.  You look surprised.  Shocked even.  Let me explain:

     For most of my life, my clothing had to satisfy three requirements:  (1) it had to fit comfortably, (2) it had to be woven from natural fibers and (3) it couldn't be noticed.  One "hey, nice shirt" and I'd never wear it again. 

     And that's about all my clothing did, unobtrusively concealing my skin, for nearly four decades.  And that's probably all it could do, for I have no fashion sense, not an ounce of flair, a complete aversion to colors and styles and patterns and statements, and a predilection for mismatching and clashing the minute I forget that.

     It didn't help that I wore school uniforms during my most formative years.  Or that I spent the rest of my childhood wearing deeply-discounted irregulars from Marshall's, off-off-brand imitations of the prior decade's fashions.  Or that I never learned to shop for myself, incapable of navigating my way through a clothing store without falling under the sway of the Svengalis who staff those those establishments, implanting their dubious fashion dogma into my head just long enough to move that stale merchandise off their shelves and onto mine, where once I returned to my senses it would sit unworn, a constant reminder of my incompetence in matters of the cloth.  Is it any wonder that years would pass between my painful visits to the haberdashery?

     But it didn't matter, for I entered adulthood wearing uniforms all over again, the corporate equivalent of the Mao suit:  grey suit, black shoes, white shirt, red tie, day after day, year after year, my only decision laces or loafers.  I was on my way to a closet filled with identical suits, shirts, ties and shoes, in which I wouldn't need a light, or even to open my eyes, just put one of each on and I'd be ready to spend another day seamlessly blending in.  And on weekends jeans, t-shirts, sneakers.  It wasn't like I was going anywhere or doing anything. 

     Then things changed.  Work went casual.  I resisted for a few years, but eventually saw the writing on the wall and invested in the new business casual uniform: blue button-downs and khaki slacks that met my three requirements and little else.  My life grew more demanding, more places to go, more people to see, but my wardrobe wasn't up the challenge.  Neither was I, but that's a topic for another day.  There's only so many places you can wear those jeans with the hole in the seat.  And, how to put it, this is delicate, I grew older and started to look older and all of a sudden it started to bother my wife that my clothes made me look even older still.

     And thus began a great clash of wills.  She brought home clothing that usually violated two or all three of my requirements.  I rejected it.  She grew frustrated, insisting that I go out and find something more presentable to wear, and I'd either come home empty-handed or loaded down with crappy clothes even I didn't like once I snapped out of my Svengali-induced spell.  This went on for years, a stalemate, as we stared and glared at each other from across our trenches. 

     As is so often the case in prolonged conflicts, the outcome wasn't decided so much by battlefield bravado as by mundane logistics.   In my case, it was my supply lines.  My clothes were wearing out faster than I could replace them, a problem exacerbated by my desire to reach some sort of rapprochement with my wife while adhering to my three requirements.   To dream the impossible dream....

     Now around this time in my life I started to appreciate that I'd spread myself too thin, that my sprawling life had to be reigned in, that I had limits, that I couldn't control everything around me.  Words like "detachment" and "delegation" started to buzz their way into my consciousness.  I had to cut back, focus on my core competencies, outsource everything else, or my life would completely unravel. 

     So with this in mind I stepped back from the clothing conflict and assessed.  And here's what I saw:  I was fighting for the right to wear clothes that I didn't care for, clothes that pained my wife, clothes that even I, in my more lucid moments, could see were wince-inducing grandpa shirts and slacks, clothes that screamed out:  "I don't give a shit how I look.  Avert your eyes!"  And my wife cares how I look, unlike me, she loves to shop, unlike me, she has a strong sense of style, unlike me, and she spends more time looking at me than anyone else, even me, and therefore is the person with the strongest personal stake in my external appearance.  If she wants me to wear something, maybe I should listen.

     So I relented, striking requirement (3) from the list, and she brought home bag after bag of clothes, all very noticeable. And sure enough, once I started wearing them, people noticed, and pointed, and commented, making me feel very uncomfortable at first, but then I recalled how our years of tension had melted into the most adoring looks in my wife's eyes as she beheld her man clad in her latest acquisitions and I was comfortable again.  Mostly.

     And now when they remark on my noticeable clothes, I hold my head high, and I declaim, in a loud and proud voice, that my wife dresses me, and if you have a problem with that, or maybe a clothing suggestion to offer, I would kindly suggest that you take it up with her.  Sure, I'm a life-sized Ken doll, but my wife's never been happier with me.  My life is so much simpler now. Clothes just magically appear in my closet. I never need to set foot in a clothing store again. 

     I can't believe I didn't do this sooner.

     Related post: "Standing on the Threshold of a Men's Shoe Dept." (March 9, 2005).

Comments

[Michelle]

YOu did good. :-)

[stephenesque]

Perry Ellis has a very reasonably priced ranged of "modern fit", stylishly striped shirts featuring french cuffs. You can remove the cuff buttons and replace them with cufflinks, enabling we office fashion plates to be both trendy and traditional at the same time. Also, cufflinks make a satisfyingly loud and commanding noise when tapped against the table during meetings. Essential.

[Girl Detective]

Should your wife ever tire of either shopping for you or your standards, I encourage you to try the services of a personal shopper at a local department store. They work for you, there is no charge for the service, and it's very efficient. It sounds extravagant, but it's actually practical, and has saved some arguments between my husband and me over the years.

[Oorgo]

You're one of the lucky ones, when I go looking for clothes my wife always makes an excuse to go somewhere else, then when asked her opinion or for some help she quips "You have good taste ..."