Last weekend, my husband issued a strict directive: leave and don’t come home until you have some new clothes. Now, most women would probably squeal with delight and run out the door yelling, “Charge it!” but, not me – no, not me.
It’s not that I don’t have my fair share of hunting and gathering instincts. (I will freely admit to the world that I have spent countless hours in an unhealthy pursuit of the perfect stroller.) It’s just that shopping for clothes is like a Shakespeare tragedy: ultimate betrayal, death, and carnage.
I can walk down a mall corridor, lazily steering my head from side to side, and say, “Oh, that would look so good!” or “That is so cute!” and in my mind’s eye see that item, pressed and clean, a vision of loveliness upon my body.
But then a voice, a dark menacing voice, will erupt from the abyss of my psyche with the cruel words “Mustard kills! Mustard kills!” So I run – fast and far – back to the closet full of clothes already acquainted with condiments, permanent markers and, trust me, everything else.
A typical day in my household could be a Fox special entitled “When Sticky Hands Attack!”, so, like generations of women before me, I have joined the ranks of MIDS… Mommies in Daddy’s Shirts.
Rather than ruin our own clothes, we steal, connive, and conveniently “lose in the wash” these big shirts that not only look, but also act, like riot gear. And we do it with peace of mind, knowing that somewhere in the world we have just saved that cashmere sweater we would really like to be wearing.
So no Honey, I don’t need new clothes. But you sure do!
