Every Girl's Crazy 'bout a Sharp-Dressed Man

I have excellent taste in clothes. I hate to brag but I wanted you to know and appreciate that as the achievement of a 56 year old man that it truly is. Again, today, a work day, I am impeccably attired, which, considering how unkind Nature and Life have been to me in the course of the years in the looks department is just this side of amazing.

Actually, as is true for a whole generation of men across the planet, I have no clue as to what goes with what and why or how. My wife who has a brilliant sense of style and taste, despite being married to me, worries about all the clothes in my house, for all of us who live there.

I spent eight years in the United States Air Force and have attempted on many occasions to use that as the excuse masquerading as a reason for why I have no sense of color or style, except I didn't have any before I was in the Air Force, had very little while I was in and got out with no appreciable improvement in any aspect of my lifestyle or personality.

Left to my own device I will buy shirts and trousers that have nothing in common except their production is a result of the Industrial Revolution arriving in some third world nation someplace. My sense of style in neck wear is solid colored ties, mostly black because I think they go with everything, and white socks to complete the look. It's been a number of years, decades, actually (come to think of it) since I've been allowed to shop for myself. And I think we're all better people because of it (at least those of us in the Northeast with whom I most frequently come into contact).

My wife selects all my work clothes and lays them out each evening. We've advanced in recent years because she no longer needs to explain to me why she chose a particular tie or why I should use a specific tie clasp for it. I think she finally realized I was listening to her the way a dog listens: mumblegrumblestumble MY NAME mumblegrumblestumble something about the couch and stay off it, leaving the seat up and more mumbling. At the end of her presentation, there would be a big sigh and she'd head into the living room with the look of a person much put-upon. I'd be left to admire clothing I had but the dimmest recollection of buying, trying to recall what she had told me about how to wear it.

I can choose my own play clothes, from the clothing she's bought for me. How much trouble can I get in? More than you (or I) might otherwise imagine. There's always a moment, after I don the casual shirt and the khakis or jeans when I just don't know if 'the look' works. I can stare into the mirror for an hour and it won't help. She, on the other hand, can, without looking up, get to the heart of the matter and set me on the path of sartorial splendor. To this day, in light of all of her talents and abilities, I'm hard-pressed to imagine what she saw in me when we met. She must just like the challenge. Not to mention this iridescent and international emergency orange open-necked shirt that's visible from space. I bought this myself-what do you think?
-bill kenny