“You’re Not Wearing That, Are You?”

Every man who’s not living under an interstate overpass is bludgeoned by these words sooner or later. Many who have ignored them no longer live. I survive …barely.

Barely, that is, in the sense that my wardrobe has shrunk to matched colors, patterns and designs. It now fits into a matchbox. It has to. Our household cannot financially support both ‘his and hers’ wardrobes…or have a closet sufficient for storage resulting from ostentatious spending.

There’re benefits to this shrinkage. I’ve moved up the food chain. Psychiatrists have a name for this syndrome: FCF…Fashion Cognitive Function. It comes from improvement in the lower third of the male cortex, located just below the section that controls eating habits. The result is that I have accepted my wife as the Final Arbiter of style and appropriate dress.

Not all men have acceded to this level of civilized life. Their lives hang tenuously in the balance. They’re in daily jeopardy of becoming social pariahs. Social ostracism eliminates them from party lists, a total embarrassment to all wives. Divorce or death usually follows this stigma of devolution.

The finger of blame points to many possibilities. Each contains a grain of truth. The easiest answer rolling off women’s lips is this: men are basically slobs. Brando wife-beater tees are stereotypical of male fashion. This is, of course, not far from the truth. Women have ample statistics and long experience to prove it. The evidence is irrefutable…men are cave dwellers.

Most men just don’t care how they look. O, not all men. A quick glance at any gathering will reveal that girth overhangs won’t fit into the voguish-thin styles by Armani, Vuitton and Klein. Pimps excluded.

Men with undeveloped FCF wear khakis, boring blue blazers and Merrill brogans. Some accessorize their jackets. They spend thousands to have Country Club logos sewn onto front pockets. They have no social relevance beyond locker rooms, golf and crude jokes. This dress is a thin veil masking their lack of masculinity.

I’m lying if I say I’ve totally passed the dress-code test. Recently we were guests at a party given by an elegant doyenne. Her invitations are engraved, of course, and the guest list is select. Big Deal. No one sends regrets. Zip codes are matched with table seatings. It’s the kind of party where people have their feelings lacerated for failure to make ‘The List.’ Suicides have been prevalent.

I rummage through my closet, uh, matchbox, grab a shirt, a tie, shoes (no socks) and a pair of khakis. I look in the mirror, commend my choices. Then she appears.

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” She’s not smiling. I look in the mirror. It shrugs. “Of course not,” I say. “I’m just experimenting with colors.” She rolls her eyes. “Shed it!”

She returns, stunned in shock disbelief at the second combination. “Really?” she says. She shakes her head in disgust. “Guess not, huh?” I say.

“I’m dressing you,” she says. I become a little boy again, remembering when my mother dressed me in short pants and white shoes. I’m humiliated, but again condescend to higher authority. “Women…” I start to say, but zip it.

At the party the men stand around making men-talk. My friend, Ace, is proud of his new jacket. “Nice jacket, pal. Where’d you find it? Dollar General?” Men talk like this. It’s a sign of brotherly love, vestigial remains from high school.

He scowls. “Can you believe it? My wife made me change shirts three times to match it. She made me wear a brown tie. Says it matches my teeth. Plus, she refused to ride in my car. Said it had pollen on it. I had to wash it first.” Ace failed the FCF test. Misery loves company.

Men agree…no one can dress to please a woman. It’s a touchy subject. We order more drinks. We conclude it’s best to let the women dress us…free food and alcohol at parties are good trade-offs.

Yesterday my wife asked if I liked her new outfit. I replied, “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” The air froze. Today a picture of a man wearing Levis and living in a mobile home was lying beside my coffee pot. Point well taken, even for a fool.

Ace and I are now enrolled in the Community College for a refresher course in FCF. The engraved invitations have resumed. Life is good again.

Bud Hearn
March 29, 2012