CLOTHES

by

Mike Crowl

Stress is a fact of my life: opening the lid of the rubbish bucket and being greeted by something alive. Hearing a piece of music in one ear that's a semitone different to, and out of kilter with, the music forced into the other ear. Putting milk into coffee and finding I'm drinking liquid Parmesan. Finding that in spite of all my careful calculations, the cheque book still manages to sink into overdraft while I'm not looking. Wondering whether the cat will make it outside before it chokes on a furball, and trying to hasten its fat departure through the narrow catdoor. Discovering that the first page of my article is printing on the last piece of paper in the box, that it's Sunday, and the deadline is 9am Monday. These small inconveniences of life apart, one other matter I have to face every so often is more stressful than them all. Which is why I put off doing anything about it for as long as possible. No, it isn't a visit to the dentist. I've only been fazed by a visit to the dentist twice in the last 18 years. On one occasion the dentist plugged up a hole after draining it. By the time I'd walked from Frederick St to the Octagon, however, the fact that someone appeared to be driving a nail up through the roof of my mouth towards my sinus proved there was still plenty of gunk in it. On the other occasion, a tooth had to go. What was left was barely visible below the gum. Somehow the dentist pried it loose, but I came home wondering if it was my tooth or my head he'd been trying to remove. No, more stressful than any of these is shopping for clothes. When I was a youth, with money to spend, and no one to please but myself, purchasing clothes was a breeze. But nowadays another person has to have a say in the choice of clothes - apart from the Bank Manager. (Of course I also have to fend off the suggestions of my children, who, until they see what you've bought think that the only clothes I should wear are jeans, jeans and jeans - and the baggier the better.) I girded up my loins recently and, along with the person mentioned above, sallied forth to deal with racks of clothes, all of which look to me to be quite unsuited to my flamboyant personality. Why do men's trousers only come in three shades of black, and two shades of grey? (The other possibility is khaki.) And why do so many puff out in such a way as to look as though you're carrying six dirty handkerchieves and a pair of rolled-up socks in each pocket? Furthermore, the larger sizes, which I now have to wear, assume that the wider your girth, the longer your leg. The rationale is beyond me. In order to get trousers that are the right leg length I would have to lose a couple of stone. Those that fit my waist slop round my feet like Peter Pan's shadow. To please the person accompanying me, (who wishes not to be named), I did try on a pair of jeans. I'm sure I heard one of the mirrors in the fitting room snigger, and that was before it thumped the back of my head while I was trying to remove a shirt two sizes too small for me. Talking of the shirts: by the time I'd tried on half a dozen colours and designs, I was sweating to such a degree that if the shop assistant had noticed, I would have been forced to purchase them all. Buying clothes invariably makes me come over all sweaty and foot-smelly. No wonder shop assistants keep their distance. (As did my accompanying person, who wafted off looking at other garments as soon as I got something on, and had to be hissed back to her place of inspection.) And further stress is caused by never knowing who'll suddenly tear open the fitting room curtains and reveal me half in and out of some item of clothing, or struggling to hang a garment back on its coathanger the perfect way it was, or maybe even telling myself how good I look in something everyone else says is ghastly. Do you see why I'd sooner go to the dentist?

Copyright Mike Crowl 1997

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