My husband has an unfortunate sense of fashion. My husband also has poor impulse control. Put the two together and, left to his own devices, he’s a hot mess.
As a family, we’ve suffered through many fashion disasters. I’m still scarred by “Nigro pants” – one of the myriad reasons I should’ve kept my maiden name – where one pulls one’s pants up to one’s armpits, or as close as possible. It’s a horrifying thing to behold.
A few years back, Brian and I struggled over a pair of pink and orange striped fleece pajama pants. I was sending them off to the donation bin because when you also have fleece sheets, the static cling is a nightmare. Also, actual sparks in my bed were a regular occurrence that I felt was just unhealthy.
“What are you doing with those?”
“I’m donating them.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down there. Those are comfortable pants.”
I eventually snuck them out of the house, but there was definitely some contempt when he realized they were gone.
A few years back, I finally bought him some actual sweatpants that he could wear out of the house without seeming creepy. Because when you reach a certain age, flannel pants are no longer acceptable day wear. A college student can get away with it, but a grown man looks like he escaped from somewhere he needed to be and it just makes people uncomfortable.
The fashion faux pas aren’t limited to pajamas, though they are a running theme. We’ve had actual fights over socks and sandals. I was incredulous over the fact that I had to even have the conversation.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting on my sandals.”
“But you haven’t taken off your socks.”
“I’m wearing my socks.”
“But you just said you’re wearing your sandals.”
“Yes. I’m wearing both.”
“That’s not how that works. You must remove the socks. Right now.”
“I’m not taking off my socks. I’m comfortable.”
“If you think, for one second, that I am going to leave the house with you while you are wearing shorts, socks, and sandals, you’re insane. Take your own car.”
“I cannot believe you’re yelling at me about socks.”
Definitely yelling: “I can’t believe I have to yell at you about socks.”
I staged a sit-in until he took off the socks. I may not be a fashionista, but that was a “hell no” moment. We all have to take a stand at some point. I draw the line at black socks and sandals.
The newest trend in Brianland is Dri-FIT clothing. I know, it takes him a while to catch on. Anyway, he has discovered how they can keep you warm in the winter and wick away sweat in the summer. Since he works in construction, this is a big deal. Plus, he loves that the material is a great sunblock and it doesn’t get soaked when he’s out kayaking.
He has slowly been transitioning his entire wardrobe over to Dri-FIT shirts (God help us all when he discovers they come in pants, too) and for some reason, they remind him of Buck Rogers attire. I won’t ask you to try and find the correlation (and if you’re under 40, you probably have no idea what I’m even talking about). A few minutes inside Brian’s mind is a few minutes too many.
Regardless of the insanity that gets him there, the end result is our sad, sad reality. Every time he puts on a Dri-FIT shirt, he makes some reference to being from the future.
Because of the fabric.
Because it’s like Buck Rogers.
And he’s from the future.
I know, he should probably get help, but there are only so many hours in the day and we really need him to go to work.
For the record, most of the time, Buck Rogers is in some hideous 70s collared thing. Not at all forward thinking.
Anyway, the straw that broke the camel’s (very tired) back came this week. I was out of the house when I got a text from my daughter, “WTH?” accompanied by a photo of a package. It was addressed to the Nigro Family Nudist Colony Compound. I mean, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, before we even opened it, I was exhausted by the energy I was going to need to properly deal with this.
“It’s clearly something your father ordered (I knew this because this was not the first time he had used the nudist colony thing when having a package mailed – this is why I drink).”
When he arrived home, he was like the cat that swallowed the canary. And he was so damn proud, “I’ve been waiting so long for that package to come.”
Not because of the contents, but because of the embarrassment to which one of us would be subjected when the mailman came knocking with this gem. I’m not sure who he hoped would be the victim, but our daughter having to suffer this indignation will be high on the list of items that send her to therapy.
Inside the package, things didn’t get better. I have actually been OK with his new-found love of Dri-FIT because, for the most part, they are pretty low-key articles of clothing. Designs are usually minimal and the colors are generally neutral. Yet somehow, Brian managed to find himself a long sleeved, shiny, Captain America Dri-FIT shirt.
He beamed with pride and joy as he held it up for my viewing pleasure, “It’s hot, right?”
“It looks like pedophile Underoos.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“That’s not the word I would use for how I feel.”
I get through each day by living in denial. It’s a lovely place where my kids put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher instead of on the counter, elves come and weed my yard and my husband doesn’t dress like an escaped mental patient. When denial fails me, I like to punch things.
We happen to have a speed bag, but I’d like something a little more substantial. I’m thinking of trying this homemade punching bag from rossboxing.com. Let me know if you’re getting rid of any old tires.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
Write to Laurie:
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