Mightier Than The Pen

Making The World A Bitter Place

Need a Change of Clothes? Urine Luck

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I’m not one to focus excessively on clothes.

OK, that’s a flagrant lie. I focus a good bit of my time on clothes, primarily in gathering, cleaning, folding and storing them.

So let’s try again: I’m not one to focus excessively on choice in clothes. My sartorial rule: dark top with light trousers or vice versa. No stripes, no patterns, no confusion. I have better ways to spend my time than frittering away half the morning trying to coordinate an outfit: I can blog about frittering away half the morning trying to coordinate an outfit.

Mrs. Thag pays even less attention to such things than I do. Her wardrobe suits those sensibilities as well; if ever we need to attend an event that requires something other than casual dress, a brief powwow precedes the selection of garments from the Rarely Used section of the closet (that’s also where we keep the tact).

Our children have naturally inherited no sense of style, which presents quite a social and parenting challenge for us, since they have inherited plenty of clothes that do not necessarily match. It’s one thing for me to feel contented with my limited repertoire of chinos and button-downs; it’s another thing entirely for my offspring to encounter a drawer full of stripes, plaid and assorted other patterns that complicate the matching calculus (and they’re much more inclined toward poetry).

Thus, this morning, in the interest of preserving marital harmony and adherence to an already strained morning routine, I withheld my critique of certain sartorial choices. I remain idly curious whether our three-year-old daughter’s outfit today came solely of her own selection or whether her mother had some say in the process. It will remain a curiosity, as I do not wish to make such a triviality a topic of conversation, a conversation that will inevitably contain at least a trace of perceived dissing vis-à-vis sense of style, or lack thereof.

But requests to change do occur. Just the other evening, in fact, we requested of one of our sons to change his pajamas, since they reeked of urine – as you can well imagine, quite the fashion faux pas (urine is sooo last season). We shall accept, provisionally, his assertion that he had nothing to do with it, and that the stench resulted only from a surreptitious visit from the Urine Fairy, who seems to enjoy stopping by that bedroom and staying a while. What we could not initially comprehend was his refusal to comply.

It turns out not that the pajamas in question were no more or less visually suited to the occasion; no, he refused to change because that would mean he was no longer the first one in pajamas that evening. It took a while for us to persuade him that changing pajamas would not automatically strip him of the all-important title. But he was still suspicious as he grudgingly replaced them (I’m suspicious, however, regarding the sincerity of his devotion to being appropriately garbed first. He betrays no such drive in the mornings – see “strained routine,” above).

The following fashion wisdom I can, however, impart to you, lest your sense has been affected by our toddler: hats go on the head, not in the toilet.


Written by Thag

December 23, 2010 at 4:17 pm

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