I don’t go clothes shopping often, but when I do you can rest assured I won’t find my size. In fact, there is nothing that fits me so well as ill-fitting clothes. My wife complains that I always buy clothes a size too big, but finding a men’s medium hanging on a clothes rack is like finding leftovers in a pig trough. Doesn’t normally happen. There’s always a small or large, but mediums, nay, never, nada.
As far as pants go, I’ve leveled up a few sizes over the past few years, which makes pants shopping depressing. However, the other problem I have with new pants is that in T-minus twenty-four hours after I buy them they’ll be smeared with grease, grime, or grass stains. This is a pet peeve of my wife who says I don’t take proper care of my clothes. Best I can tell, proper care means I should hardly ever wear my new clothes, which I think defeats the whole purpose of buying them. When I tell her that, she says I should just come inside and change into old clothes before doing farm stuff. But farm stuff waits for no man. If I had to go inside and change clothes before feeding the cows or piddling around the barn, then I would get even less accomplished than I already do.
Sometimes my wife and my mom tag-team me on proper clothes care. Yes, shudder, you should–it is never good when a man’s wife and mom combine forces on anything. Together, they’ll regale each other in stories of jeans I’ve defiled, with my mom bringing up days gone by when she had to sew knee patches onto my jeans. This was common practice for moms back when I was growing up because instead of playing video games and watching TV, boys played outside in huge ravenous hordes. Riding bikes, climbing trees, crawling under barbed wire fences–there were numerous ways for holes to appear in garments. These were natural hard-earned holes, not the faux prefabricated holes that adorn jeans of youngins today. My opinion is if a kid wants a hole in their jeans, they should go outside and earn it.
Admittedly, as an elder Millennial, by the time my generation came around, we, as a nation, were completely dependent on foreign laborers in sweatshops for our clothes, but this new generation–Generation Z or whatever they’re called–now requests sweatshop laborers produce the holes in their clothes as well. Oh, how far we have fallen!
Furthermore, isn’t clothes production a matter of national security? All China has got to do is just quit shipping over clothes and the vast majority of us will freeze to death or die of embarrassment, plus our armed forces will have to fight naked. Of course, I would still be afraid if a bunch of naked Marines came charging after me, but the steely-eyed Russians would probably just say “stremites’ k penisu” which means roughly, “aim for the dangly bits.”
So those are my thoughts on clothes.
