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The Horror of Fashion

It was Friday night, and, due to some recent expenses, Teresa and I had no budget for a date. Yet we had babysitters, so we had to do something. Teresa proposed that we go to the mall and try on outfits. Such a proposal was, of course, hateful to my soul, but being a loving husband, I consented. She’s been into this program that determines one’s optimal fashion by her personality type, and she having an “amiable” personality, her prescribed outfits were muted, delicate, and elegant. I hating both personality tests and the mere concept of fashion, we clashed on every opinion. Everything she tried on reminded me of my mother’s fashion, who also has an amiable personality. They say men marry their mothers, but who really wants that? I was determined that my wife should look vibrant, edgy, and florescent.  In retaliation, she tried to pick out outfits for me, but I would have none of it. Everything she pointed to, I couldn’t imagine myself wearing in good conscience. The interesting part was, she kind of agreed. Nothing seemed to suit me.

Eventually we realized that I have no fashion. Tainted by such bad influences as Brigham Young and Henry David Thoreau, I’m content to have my nakedness covered. She asked me if, given a million dollars to design my own wardrobe, what it would consist of, and, after careful consideration, I answered, “Tunics.” – “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” she replied. “But what would you do with your tunics? How would you design them?” I replied, “I wouldn’t do anything with them, because that would be fashion, and I have no interest in fashion. I just like tunics.” I further depressed her when, after more psychoanalysis, I realized that my fashion role model is a pudgy guy at work who wears flip flops, sweat pants, and ugly t-shirts. His complete apathy for his physical appearance, yet go-lucky personality, inspires me.

In the end, however, she helped me realize that my ideals were contradictory. If I couldn’t stand the thought of a muted, delicate, and elegant wife, I clearly did have a sense of fashion, and I wasn’t being fair by letting my own appearance go. After all, my true role model, Sir Percy Blackeney, had an excellent sense of fashion, and it didn’t inhibit him in the least from fighting evil. When we went home to pickup the kids from the inlaws, I saw my sister in-law (an “expressive” personality) wearing a florescent, orange shirt. It looked good on her. Then I looked at my “amiable” Teresa and imagined her in the shirt. It didn’t look good. The truth is, my wife is muted, delicate, and elegant … and boy does she look good.

So I confessed to her all my wrongs and vowed to take upon myself the burden of fashion. It will not be easy. There will probably be many more posts about how much I hate it and hate the world and everyone in it who wears clothes. But here’s my conclusion: All our lives we’ve been taught that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Fashion, therefore, seems superfluous. But if outside appearances never matter … if Heaven is a place where people are still homely and covered in leprosy and have bad breath and terrible hygiene and non-existent social skills, because it’s still what’s on the inside that counts, then heaven’s gonna stink. God, therefore, must have an excellent sense of fashion, and if I want to become like him, why wait?

I’ll tell you why. Because I hate fashion!

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