I'm quite content to be fashion-handicapped: it saves me money because I really don't mind what I wear so long as I'm comfortable and not hot or sweaty. Oh, and I also prefer when my undies don't pinch.
But despite my handicap, at least I know to wear pants to work.
"Forget something?" I asked a work colleague who clearly doesn't.
"It's called a dress-shirt," she snapped at me. Turns out I wasn't the first staff member to mention she was only half dressed and she wasn't pleased.
"I believe the shirt bit," I told her. Basically she was wearing what amounted to her husband's work shirt - like those women in the eighties movies would wear to bed.
"It's a dress-shirt and it goes halfway down my thigh, for Christ's sake." Her blasphemy, not mine.
"But the part with the buttons at the front goes halfway up your-"
"Enough!" she snapped again and disappeared into her office.
But what do I know? I wear jeans to weddings and the beach. My favourite shoes are Sampson sandles. My favourite hat has jelly beans all over it.
And now I'm wondering, what the hell happened to my jelly bean hat? I haven't seen it in ages. I'm sure I never gave it away or threw it out. Tracey will know.
My wife's responses are damningly obtuse. She's always detested my hat. I suspect foul play.
Later that same afternoon, my colleague was telling us how her daughter was in the habit of wearing only her pajama tops to bed.
"Hey you'll match!" I told her.
Much to the disappointment of the male customers, she's worn pants to work ever since.
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