I hate changing my cloths!!
I always thought firemen had it nice. Wake up, throw both legs in pants and boots, pull up the suspenders, slam a hat on your head and out the door ready for business. No fuss , no muss and no, “ Those socks don’t match your shirt!” nonsense.
Even as a kid I was mystified by the whole “Proper attire” concept. For a brief time I played with paper dolls. These were semi naked versions of Dagwood and Blondie accompanied by paper outfits that were held in place with paper tabs that fit over the figures shoulders.
My father must have been appalled by the idea his son was playing with paper dolls, but he would have been somewhat relieved to know I was much more interested in the semi naked Blondie than the semi naked Dagwood.
Anyway , there were also little back up scenes included in the sets. Dagwood chopping wood, Blondie baking ham, The Party, Church etc. etc.
I never “got” why Dagwood couldn’t split wood in a suit, or why the ham would not have tasted just as good if Blondie wore an evening dress to cook it. For that matter, if Dagwood was so worried about the ham, why didn’t he hand Blondie the ax and get his rear end in the kitchen.
Well, you can see the social havoc I would have unleashed on the world.
Over the years I have tried valiantly to live out my desires. It has not turned out well.
I once transplanted a large shrub from one part of the yard to another. This involved heavy labor and much water. Fully expecting “ Good job” from my lovely spouse, I was surprised to hear consternation in her voice , “ those are your good shoes!!” In her defense the damn things were never worth much after that. The toes curled up and the insides got really rough.
Then there was the hall painting. “ Why is your good shirt polka dotted?” And where is it written that there are “good jeans” in which we should refrain from applying polyurethane? Are there “bad jeans” worn only to clean sheds ??
Nor is it only work. Countless times I have arrived at the door wallet packed, watch wound, keys clutched in hand only to be greeted with, “ Not in that your not!”
This makes no sense. We are invited to celebrate the special events of others lives, their most happy, sacred and emotional moments. Why does this require us to shove our bodies into stiff cloths, drape a rope around our necks and encase our feet in hunks of dead cow?
In fact I believe it is a female conspiracy. Every secretary at school thought it was their job to check if I was appropriately attired. Even my favorite female students took on the job. They would greet me at the door, give me the once over and either nod approvingly or comment, “So the light was out in the closet again.” Or “ So your wife left before you got up this morning.”
Finally I have drawn a line in the sand. I bought a pair of dress up sneakers that perfectly match my suit. Shoes are a thing of the past.