The Guy In The Flowered Shirt

With our two-year anniversary coming up, I feel qualified to dispense a bit - just a bit - of relationship advice to anyone reading this:

Let your wife dress you.

Now, I know you're thinking, "Whatever, Colin. You're the same guy who said you never think about what you're wearing. That was item #82 on your Hundred Things list."

And, strictly speaking, this recollection is true. (Creepy, though: was it really 82?)

I'll admit that sometimes I do think about what I'm wearing... just not while I'm wearing it. Right now I have on... uh... okay... I'm not looking... short sleeves; I know that much – I can see my naked forearms. My shirt appears to be brown, or the sleeve parts anyway, which means I'm probably wearing jeans. It's all coming to me now.

Friday night Penelope and I went to an open house at our old agency, and I wore a blue button-up shirt with pale blue flowers on it and diagonal stripes, and a matching pale blue undershirt. And pants, most likely.

No, I remember - brown corduroys. And black shoes.

Now, let me first point out that every item in that outfit is something I probably wouldn't have purchased on my own. I don't generally go in for florals, or brown corduroys, and the shoes appealed to me mainly because I knew Lope would like 'em. And "pretty much never" describes how often I would think about wearing all these things *together*.

But I looked nice. Or, at least, Penelope said I looked nice, and nobody kicked me out or anything, so I have to assume that, unless she's playing an elaborate and devilishly ingenious trick on me, the Mrs. knows what she's talking about.

It goes without saying that it doesn't hurt to have your wife think you look hot. And believe me, no matter how snappy a dresser you think you are, she'll like you better in her clothes.

Wait. That came out wrong.

It's like these sunglasses I have. They're nice. Ray-Bans that wrap around, purchased with the vision insurance coverage I had at my last job, which could be spent even if you didn't have bad eyes. The lenses have a blue tint to them.

Now, I remember sitting there at Lenscrafters. I remember Lope sizing me up, straightening the frames on my crooked face, and nodding. "You look good," she said, and the saleslady in the blazer agreed.

These sunglasses are essentially useless. The blue glass blocks 5, maybe 10 percent of light at best. I squint the whole time I have 'em on, unless it's overcast, in which case I already feel like a goober for wearing sunglasses in the first place.

It doesn't help that my beard comes in red, and my skin is white, so with my blue lenses topping it off I look like the Serbian flag, but you know what? I wear those sunglasses regardless.

Friday night I sauntered into the place with flowers on my shirt and a look on my face: a look that says, "I'm cool. I'm placid. I have no idea what is on my body, but my wife likes it."

So there you go.