Judy's Blog OFF MY NOODLE

Wardrobe Malfunctions

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“Do you think we can get new elastic in these sweat pants?” my husband asks, holding up a pair so stretched out that not only my husband, but three of his closest friends could all fit inside. I immediately observe two holes on one side of the sweats and a ripped seam on the other, yet pretend that I’m giving his idea serious consideration. It’s bad form to laugh out loud at a husband’s more peculiar questions, and I am grateful that I went to drama school on weekends during my youth. 

I bite my lower lip as a hedge against the laughter. Good spouses understand the need for this, but as I do so, I also remember that I still have never made an appointment for Restylane injections or any other rehabbing maneuvers for my poor bottom lip, nibbled and gnawed since the late 1980s, all in the name of marital harmony. One day I will correct this oversight.

“Actually, honey, these sweat pants also have holes,” I say, pointing to the air pockets. “Let’s give this poor economy a little boost and spring for a new pair.”

“Really?” he says, noting the defects with surprise. “Too bad. Otherwise they’re still perfect. What’s this bag from Banana Republic?” he asks, somehow having missed the gaping holes in his own clothing that have probably been there for months, yet suddenly spying an itty bitty parcel tucked discreetly in a corner of a large, cozy chair.

“Oh, just a little sweater,” I say, feeling sheepish. I’m not a crazed shopper, so there’s no reason for me to feel ashamed or embarrassed at this purchase. But marriage to a man this committed to clothing conservation, a man who must be forced nearly at gunpoint to get to the mall every five years to replace frayed, faded and air-conditioned shirts and pants, makes me feel a wee bit guilty when I pick up some refreshing threads for myself. In my defense, I also have clothing of distinguished longevity, a few nearly qualifying as “vintage.” However, I draw the line at any garment with exhausted elastic and air pockets not in the original design.

I comfort myself that in our marriage, his aversion to shopping for clothes is balanced by my conscientious efforts to revitalize my wardrobe at respectable intervals. I figure I’m not only aiding our still wounded economy, but preventing some sort of dangerous imbalance in the cosmos at the same time.

While my husband is always handsomely dressed for any formal occasion, I have still caused some of his favored old, informal duds to “disappear,” kind of like a kidnapped Mafia don, never to be seen again. When he asks where that old Pendleton shirt went, I channel my inner actor and feign total ignorance.  But there are limits as to what he will tolerate.

One evening, my husband and son were nearly two hours late returning from a hike. It was already dark, I hadn’t heard from them, and I was pacing the living room, trying not to panic. They finally came through the door looking like they had been in a knock-down fight on the dusty streets outside the O-K Corral. They refused to tell me exactly what had happened, and would only admit to having had “an adventure” involving an unmarked mountain path. I felt the color drain from my face, but my men were grinning from ear to ear. Thankfully, their wounds were minor, but their clothes were now rags, with mud caked down into the very fibers, long, jagged tears, and giant swaths of material gouged out.

But later, when I scooped up the clothes to throw them away, my husband asked what in the world I thought I was doing, in a rare tone of outrage. It was if I was junking the gold cufflinks his father had given him. This battle was not worth waging. Obviously, this tattered, filthy ensemble was a memento of a successful battle between man and the elements, a souvenir of a fabled experience shared by father and son. The two of them still wear these “clothes” for exercise like soldiers proudly wearing Purple Hearts.

Meanwhile, these other stretched-out sweats, with no sentimental value, are headed for a new life as dusting cloths. This means I’ll be heading over to the mall to get my shopping-averse husband a replacement pair. Since I’ll be there anyway, I just might take a quick peek around at some women’s wear. You just never know when you might spot some “haute” new thing to liven up the old walk-in closet.