The Clothes Make the Man

A few years ago while I was living in Atlanta, I experienced an intervention. A female friend of mine and I were walking by Old Navy and she unexpectedly took me inside, brought me to the bluejeans, selected a few and pointed me to the dressing room. Apparently, my jeans were out of style and didn't fit right. Since I was a graduate student, bluejeans were all I ever wore and apparently I looked like a homeless person from the 1980s or something. Since that time, I've been a little sensitive about the whole issue. I still don't pay much attention to what I'm wearing, but at least I try not to look like I'm wearing someone else's pants.

Yesterday, I bit the bullet and went on my every-three-years pilgrimage to buy some jeans at Macy's. (I went to the Macy's by the way, at 34th Street and Broadway.) They were having a denim sale. It was pandemonium on floor "1 1/2". Before I could even get my bearings, a very assertive saleswoman shouted "what size are you looking for sir?" at me. I pointed to a pair in my size at the top of the nearest pile and that seemed to satisfy her. I was left standing staring at a sea of denim. What the heck is relaxed-fix skinny boot cut, anyway? Did we have all these variations when I was a kid? Do I need colorful stitching and buttons on my back pocket? I selected a few pairs and then got on the line for the fitting room. This is something I learned at my intervention. You should try pants on before you buy them. The assertive lady buzzed by and told us to stand closer to the wall. She instructed a young woman from Europe somewhere that she could not go into the changing room and she could not stand in line with her man. She then told me to watch my head as she hurled a pair of pants onto a shelf over my head.

I went into the changing room and slipped on a pair of pants, only to discover there was no zipper, but instead, six buttons. Why would big clunky buttons ever be preferable to a zipper, I wondered? I buttoned 5 of the 6 buttons looked in the mirror, and decided I looked like a middle-aged dad trying to wear his son's pants. Plus, the price tag said $60. Unless I got a free backrub with those pants, I wasn't paying $60. I returned the three pairs I had tried on to the shelf, went and found the jeans I always get -- with zippers. I couldn't face the long line for the changing room, so I made my purchase and walked out of the store. You can teach an old dog new tricks, but you can't make him go into the fitting room twice.