I can tell it's almost vacation time because my wife has become very concerned with my wardrobe.
Apparently, my clothes are just fine 51 weeks of the year, when I come into contact with people I know and respect. But they are totally inappropriate for an 800-mile trek to the beach, where I will interact with complete strangers whom I will never see again.
To hear my wife tell it, these people will return to Boise or Cheyenne with nothing better to tell than the story of some slob from Ohio with bleach stains on his shirt.
My usual attire during the 51 weeks when I'm permitted to dress myself is jeans and a T-shirt. Most of the T-shirts are promotions from Mount Union Theatre, with Spider-Man, Star Wars and other movie logos on the back. They're comfortable and durable.
In spring and early summer, I shift into denim shorts. Admittedly, they have seen better days. But the holes they have are strategically placed and don't reveal too much, as long as I keep my shirt untucked.
Perfectly good beach attire, and isn't that the point: To be comfortable?
No, says my wife. The point is to be presentable, whatever that means. It's a variation on the old riff where Mom tells Junior to be sure to wear clean underwear when leaving the house, in case he is in a traffic accident. As though the only place he will leave skid marks in an accident is on the road.
I'm an old hand at this "old dog, new clothes," schtick. In my callow newlywed days, before I had been trained by years of good-natured (I hope) browbeating, I put up quite a fight whenever we came within 30 yards of a clothing store. But now I go quietly, like a medicated prisoner making that last walk to the gallows.
She is impressed by how docile I am. I pick a few shorts and shirts off the racks at random, favoring neutral colors. (If off-white and beige can sell a house, they should sell her too, right?)
She shakes her head and dubs my selections "old man clothes," offending all the old men nearby who think they are pretty natty.
I wish I understood what she means by "old." They're just shorts and shirts; they don't scream AARP or have a Ben-Gay logo stitched into the label.
I resist the urge to say that trips with her to the clothing store are making me old before my time. They are, in fact, aging me in dog years. I allow her to take my hand and lead me to the trendy section, just a few aisles over from the geriatrics.
"Look at him," she says, pointing to a mannequin. It's dressed in cargo shorts (I know this because they're labeled), a white T-shirt and an unbuttoned checkered shirt.
To me, Mr. Mannequin looks like a slob. Nevertheless, she stares up at him — how quick we are to assign genders to inanimate objects! — as if he were a man of letters, probably multi-lingual with a smattering of psychology and Shakespeare and able to whip up a mean martini.
Moments later, I'm in the dressing room, trying to live up to the mannequin's plastic perfection. The labels in these clothes are "Urban Up." Very trendy.
"You look wonderful," she says as I pirouette outside the dressing room. I'm not sure if she's addressing me or the mannequin.
I don't feel wonderful. The only things I'm missing are a backward ball cap and a half dozen body piercings. I'm about to regress to newlywed mode, when I fought for the wardrobe.
Until I remember that I'll only be wearing these clothes 800 miles away from home, for those good people vacationing at the beach from Cheyenne or Boise. After that, the purchase goes down like a vintage bottle of Merlot.
At home, I can return to my slovenly self, a walking billboard for movies and swiss-cheese denim cutoffs. On the beach only will I transform into Rico Suave, an aging stud muffin still trying to emulate Don Johnson.
Yo yo yo. The vacationer's in the house.
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