Clothes Shopping

Awright, guys, raise your hands if you hate going clothes shopping. (Trust me here, girlies, all the dudes are raising their hands, which is better than what they usually do with their hands in front of the computer) I will speak for the penised population and say we hate clothes shopping for ourselves. And here’s a newsflash, we generally hate clothes shopping for you girls, too. “No your ass doesn’t look big”, “yes that dress is fine on you”, “no, those pants don’t look any different from the other 30 pair of ‘taupe’ color pants you have”. We hate clothes shopping for ourselves. It has to have something to do with our male genes. Maybe because every time we shop, all of a sudden we see the 5 year old version of ourselves trying on all the horribly tacky clothes that our mom lovingly picked out for us. God, the pants she stuck me in when I was a kid.

I have very little fashion sense, especially when it comes to “dress up”. You know occasions that require my shirt to have buttons, my pants to be ironed, non sneaker like attire to be on my size 12s. Egad, do I have to wear a tie? I can count my suit jackets on one hand. I own 3; 2 black, and one..well…fuck, I totally forget, even though I just bought it a few months ago. I know 2 are black; they’re all purpose. Weddings, funerals, Xmas parties, business dinners, etc. Back when I was working, there was one dude who we always busted on because he always wore a black suitcoat at national meetings. All along, I was hoping my hip crowd would never notice I was doing the exact damn thing. I am sure they did, but at least never had the decency to call me on it to my face.

I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate it. I see nothing wrong with wearing a ratty old band t-shirt, cargo/board shorts and flips. OK, in the winter, shirt jeans (black, of course) and high top sneakers (because they make my size 12s look a mere size 11 ½). Anything out of that, and I feel severely motarded. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and most likely the social situation I find myself in. Or maybe it’s because I sweat like a fucking hog (they sweat, don’t they?) when you wrap me in a long sleeve shirt, tie, jacket, uncomfortable pants and shoes. I feel totally enclosed, like I am some sort of nerd sandwich.

So we’re going to a wedding tomorrow. That’s going to be outside. For those of you that don’t live here, I will tell you it’s been high 80’s low 90’2 for seemingly 2 weeks now. So the prospect of being all suited up for an outdoor wedding and reception is pretty appalling to me right now. Which means, fuck, I gotta go buy some new threads. So off to the fashion haven us poor folks call Kohl’s. I guess I shouldn’t rag on Kohl’s. I think they actually have some pretty cool stuff that you can’t find in any other of a number of retail clothiers. And their prices seem to be more than fair. It’s one of those places that say the regular price is X, but their price is so much cheaper, you would be retarded to not buy it. I am sure it’s an old practice, but not a lot of stores seem to do it anymore. You can’t go to Kohl’s too often, though. It’s a real good place to go, like 3-4 times a year, anything more would be a waste. Plus they apparently have some great sales if you have their card, coupon and correct blood type.

I do what any good husband would do; beg my wife to dress me. I still hold veto power, and it mostly an exercise of me holding up a shirt and pants and continually asking “does this go?” OK, so maybe once I asked if my ass looked fat, I’ll give ya that one. We both agree we aren’t getting too dressed up. I catch a break as this means, no jacket, no tie. Sweet! But I do have to buy a whole new ensemble. T gives me a bit of a head start by picking out the pants. OK, that’s half the battle. The pants are a light beige. In essence, pretty much anything else will match. As I browse, I come across some killer seersucker shirts. I know, I know, seersucker and all, but they were cool, palm tree covered light and airy shirts. Just what I need. I am all over this rack as T returns with her proposed shirt selections.

I flash back to being that 5 year old whose mom is forcing me to wear pretty much the ugliest stuff she can find. I am not some demented Ken doll she can dress up as she wishes. These shirts are ugly and very unKev. I mean those of you who have been lucky to have met me in person know I have a certain “look”. I am tall, over 6 foot. I still have shoulder length long hair, though it seems to be falling out like fetuses from the Spears sisters’ legs (ZING!), and I guess what you could call a rapidly decaying formerly athletic build. Scruff and a soul patch.

She brings me these shirts that look like they were picnic blankets in a previous life. Ugly picnic blankets. I mean, stripes, and designs and multicolored. I mean, I guess it’s great if you are an accountant or office manager or something. But not for a dude vainly holding onto his rock n’ roll past. The best way I can describe it, is like you rip the head of a typical Target model, and replace it with Nickelback dude. And vice versa. OK, that might be a pretty shitty analogy, but it’s the best I can do. She says to basically look for something ‘like this’ and leave for the women’s department.

Maybe I just never noticed before. Maybe all stores aren’t like this. But for this particular Kohl’s the women’s section is easily twice as big as the men’s. Oh vey, this could take a while. I have actually lost T in this store. It doesn’t take me too long to cruise the men’s section, and find a few possible shirt options. And then it’s like I am Michael Waltrip in any race. I just go around and around in circles, not really doing much. It doesn’t take me too much time to entirely cover the men’s and old-men’s-vainly-trying-to-look-young-section. Over and over. Yea, I did scoop up a few things. But really here, my work is done. Now it’s a battle to find T and het the hell outta here.

I find her relatively quickly. And she actually OKs my shirt choices. She’s not as lucky as me, she doesn’t find anything to wear. I mean, really, who the hell gets married and has the reception outside in fucking August? Another ray of luck shines down, as we agree to not buy shoes, we will wear flips. That’s fucking money right there and why I love this girl so damn much. That’s right, I am going to a wedding wearing flips; even with my disgusting toenail that has been filled with old blood since it got smacked in hockey. I will look ‘right’, I will not look/feel out of place. It could always be worse, I could be that schmuck wearing that tux in 90 degree heat. Actually, the groom is way cool, and a fellow Avalanche fan, so I will try to limit my bitching. I know there will be other stiffs there who felt like they had to wear the whole suit get up. Maybe, their girl made them do it. Either way, I will be mocking them.

I believe my stuff I won’t even have to iron. I fucking hate ironing; I try and try, but am just no good at it. T usually has to swoop in like SuperGirl and save the day. I’ve asked her repeatedly to dress up like SuperGirl, but that is a post for another day. She ended up getting a sundress, so we are all good to go. And maybe, just maybe, I will shave my toe knuckle hair. After all, he is an Avalanche fan…..