My Planet: Finding Humor in the Oddest Places

Is That What You’re Wearing?

Every Saturday evening in households across America, a predictable scene unfolds. A couple is dressing for dinner out. One of them looks great. In our house, this would be Ed. Unlike myself, Ed can always find a top and a bottom that complement each other, or at the very least refrain from throwing things at each other.

Meanwhile, I am lolling on the couch, nursing the delusion that the jeans with the grease stains on one thigh and the Polarfleece pullover that appears to be stealing the dog’s fur one hair at a time, and making admirable progress, will be just fine.

Inevitably, the couple must come together and the words must be spoken: “You’re wearing that?”

“What?” I’ll say. This is a stalling tactic, allowing me time to pull together a defense of denim as appropriate dinner-party attire. I point out that I’ll be seated at a table, and thus no one will see me from the waist down. Unfortunately, this leads us to the waist-up portion of the argument. As there is no logical argument for wearing a garment that features armpit zippers to a dinner party, I am forced down the path of illogical argument: “Einstein wore sneakers to the Nobel Prize dinner.” Actually, this isn’t so much illogical as untrue. Ed ignores me and goes back to his cuff links, whatever those are.

I consider accessorizing my outfit, but this is a skill that eludes me. I tie neckwear the way Brownies do—or Pony Express riders. The last time I wore a scarf, Ed put his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he said.

I stopped bothering with jewelry ages ago. Sometimes I open my jewelry box and look inside with a sort of archaeologist’s fascination. How queer this strand of red stones. What was its purpose?

It’s been so long since I wore earrings that the holes in my lobes have completely closed up. I told this to a friend recently, and she claims a similar thing happened to her waist. After about ten years of wearing nonfitted stretch waistbands, she insists that her waistline has completely disappeared.

I don’t know what happened to me. I used to derive great joy from dressing up. These days joy takes the form of getting away with wearing the same thing two days in a row. My idea of dressing up has become not wearing lug soles. I suppose I’m not being fair to Ed. I should dress up for him, if only so that other husbands don’t feel sorry for him. Poor Ed. Look what he married. It’s a cocker spaniel, isn’t it?

Some people would argue that dressing nicely becomes more important as you age. If you think of your face as a piece of clothing that you are forced to wear, day in and day out, and that eventually this very key wardrobe piece becomes wrinkled and spotted and ill-fitting, the least you can do is pair it with something that looks smart and crisp. This way, the total look averages out better. I can see these people’s point. I can see it, and yet I don’t care.

Part of the reason I don’t care is that most of the people around me don’t seem to care either. It’s as though somewhere along the line, without saying or signing anything, America reached an agreement: If we all pull together and look like hell, we can make this country great. We can be people who don’t feel the edges of our waistbands! We can be people wearing sweat suits in the airports of Europe! One nation, undivided, with Velcro and stretch panels for all.