One day last week –- my husband Bob’s first full week of retirement –- he came downstairs for breakfast wearing boxer shorts over his pajamas.
“Nice look,” I said, peering up from my computer.
“It keeps my pants from falling off,” he said, heading for the front door.
“Did you get the paper yet?”
“No. But if I had known you were dressing for the occasion, I would have thrown it out in the yard.”
He cracked the door and snatched the paper from the porch.
“Very funny.”
“The yard man comes today,” I reminded him. “I hope you have that on when he comes to the door for his check.”
He mumbled and shuffled off to the kitchen for coffee.
Bob could easily make the Worst Dressed List with Mikey Rourke and Madonna. There is the thing about not being famous, but still.
Once when we were dating in the early ‘80s, he showed up at a party wearing a slinky, polyester shirt with a near life-size fox hunt scene on it. It must have been in style in the early ‘70s. If ever. I was mortified. He later said he wore it as a joke, but I was never convinced.
After we got married, I discovered a whole closet full of slick shirts with long collars and weird prints, plaid sports coats, funky ties and bell-bottom jeans, all bought by his first wife. And they had been divorced for seven years before we married.
If Bob hadn’t married me –- or somebody –- he would still be wearing them. Or going naked.
“These go,” I told him, prying the shirts from his hands.
“But look. They still have all the buttons … no holes. They’re perfectly fine.”
I convinced him to put them in our yard sale, where we sold them to another clueless single guy who thought they were a bargain.
“You’re selling all these great shirts for just $2 each?” he said, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Neither could I.
Over the years I’ve bought virtually everything in Bob’s closet and struggled to get him to toss outdated clothes. Even holey underwear and stained t-shirts produce a tug- of-war. I have to sneak them into the rag bag or he’ll wear them as long as they’re hanging together by a thread.
Now that he’s into wearing his underwear on the outside, I suppose I need to go shopping to get him some snazzy ones. You never know when he and Madonna might want to go on tour together.
