My other friend also buys her husband’s clothes and he likes that she shops for him. And he likes what she buys for him. And, more importantly, he wears what she buys for him.
My husband hates it if I shop for him and has sneered at almost everything I’ve ever brought home. And by sneer, I mean says highly derogatory things about my choices, usually ending with, “…do you even know who I am?”
My brother – who might I remind you shares the same name as Husband and therefore the same ass stubbornness – Brother handles my clothing gifts with the same disdain as Husband; they are usually opened, laughed at and then returned. And Brother is way more stylish than Husband. In fact, once Brother once gave an Ex of mine his discards and then was totally horrified at the outfit the Ex put together. “If I knew he was going to put those pants with that shirt, I would never have given him any of my clothes.” he said while shaking his head and trying to pretend he wasn’t with us. Brother is fashionable and trendy. I am not.
I’ve abstained from any attempts to dress those picky losers because shopping is not really my thing. In fact, I dislike shopping for clothes slightly less than shopping for food. Since the food thing is necessary, I refrain from shopping for clothes as much as possible.
See Husband has been wearing the same shirts for like five years now. And they look like he’s been wearing them for five years. Now he has two of each shirt so the wear and tear hasn’t been as tragic as it might have been but they are not looking good. But getting an OCD nutter to get new shirts is a nightmare. They no longer make the shirts he has so the change was going to be quite drastic. Someone – not me – was not taking this change well. Someone – not me – kept resisting, ignoring the sorry state of his wardrobe and pretending life would go on as it had been. Someone – that would be ME – wasn’t having that. I gave him a deadline to get new shirts by then end of August or walk about naked in September because I was going to toss the nasty ones in the trash. After the blustering and name-calling and downright drama, Husband finally came to terms with the challenge. And by ‘came to terms’, I mean, went shopping once, rejected everything I showed him or suggested and went home in the same sorry shirt he’d come in with. It was looking like I was going to have a naked Husband come September first.
And then last week I went to the Apple store to have the half moon camera issue on my phone fixed. I was hoping for a replaced shiny new one but they took my broken phone from me, told me they’d fix it and to come back in 45minutes. What the hell does someone who is not a shopping fan do when they’re stuck in a mall for 45 minutes? Shop for one’s Husband, that’s what. And because I had no phone, I could not text him pictures for approval. And because I could not text him for approval, I amused myself scooting about the sale rack in Macy’s picking up all manner of shirts for him that he was sure to hate and I was sure to have to return. I did restrain myself from getting him the tight sherbet pink V-neck Brother might wear but giggled myself silly at the thought of Husband sporting it around Nashville. It’s the little things. One hour later, fixed cell phone in one hand and heavy shopping bag in the other and tootled on home to face Husband’s scorn.
BUT HE LIKED THEM!
Not all of them of course. That would be nuts. But three out of seven ain't bad, considering my record of zero. I was feeling so dang cocky, when I returned the four rejected shirts, I got him four more! And guess what? He liked them too! Which means, Husband now has seven new shirts and I have broken a twenty-year losing shirt shopping streak. I’m feeling so hot; I might even attempt to buy something for Brother…
Yeah, whom am I kidding? Brother is too posh for the sale rack and I’m too cheap to pay full price for a shirt he’ll reject. I’m going to quit while I’m ahead and go just go remove Husband’s icky five-year-old shirts and place them lovingly in a box – per his request – until some later date when I can throw them out. Oh, happy day!