I miss Garanimals

By the way, the Garanimals in the title is a link. As it is in this line.

I have been looking through a lot of old photos and I realize that I have worn my fair share of tuxes in the past. I’m also on to you women, by the way. (I may be smart, but I never said I was quick about it.) Any time there is any kind of even that the woman wants to go smoothly, men get dressed in tuxes. Weddings, proms, state dinners, every man is wearing a tux. You know why? Because if women didn’t require us to wear one, we would all show up in jeans and T-shirts.

You know I’m right on this. This is just another example of my theory. (Which, if you know me, you have heard, but if you haven’t, it is the basis of a whole post of it’s own. Possibly a series.) The simple truth is that we, as men, cannot be trusted to dress ourselves. It seems worse when you are living with a woman. You have to constantly ask, “Does this plaid shirt go with these fireman pants?” It’s no wonder women tend to live longer than men, they need a few years of peace before they go.

I have lived alone the better part of my adult life. Maybe not the part mind you, but at least the longer portion of it. In that time I have managed to get jobs, dates, and not be laughed out of Denny’s for my attire in the time that I have picked it out myself. I am also an oddball in that my underwear and socks tend to match the rest of the outfit. (Depending entirely on the proximity to laundry time.)

There have been times when I have been blessed (Or so it seemed at the time.) with female company that stayed over often. I even had a female roommate for a while. Now during these times, I remember not being confident in leaving the house unless I had run my outfit past my significant other. (Or Sarah.) In fact, in Sarah’s case, I think it was reciprocal, because I saw her just as often in her scanties asking for my thoughts on a particular outfit. Somehow I could help her get dressed, but I was incapable of picking out my own wardrobe.

Until I was living on my own again. But I have begun to wonder if my time without having a serious relationship has impacted my ability to pick out clothes, and thereby, be able to find such a relationship. Somehow that seems even too cruel for the powers that be. I think my next move might have to be having someone move in with me to be a wardrobe consultant. She could start out by interviewing all of my clothes to see if they had “relevance” in the new structure. I don’t think I need the whole Metrosexualization package. Just a little more pizzazz to my wardrobe. I certainly can’t just rent tuxes, not with my job. I’ll get locked up, too.

I have noticed that my clothing has become much more about comfort than about style. “Clearance” is also a good word in my shopping vocabulary. As I am looking back in some of these pictures, I find myself recognizing shirts that I still have. Some that I still wear, some that I swear I will be able to wear again. (I also used to have more hair. It must be in the closet somewhere, too.)

Ummm…I started out with a point. Oh yeah. Women dress us for important occasions so that we don’t screw it up. Such is the deviousness of their plot that in trying to uncover it, your brain goes on tangents! They are a nefarious and sinister gender. And we are dumb enough to fall for it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out how to connect these suspenders to this belt holding my pants up.

**************

Random fact: This post has no correlation with the opening of “Walk the Line.” A movie about a man who solved this particular dilemma.