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Santa Maria Sun / Humor

The following article was posted on June 9th, 2009, in the Santa Maria Sun - Volume 10, Issue 13 [ Submit a Story ]
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 10, Issue 13

Krider fashion

It fits, and it's mostly cleanâ€"so what if there's a little butt crack?

By ROB KRIDER

I didn’t make it to Milan this year to see the latest in spring fashion. In fact, I didn’t even make it to the mall to see what’s in style. Of course, I’m pretty sure I know what the “it” thing is this season: layers. A little hint here: It’s always layers. Every year, layers are the “new” thing, so the stores can sell us two layers of clothing for double the profit. On a positive note, the homeless are always in fashion.

Since I don’t pay much attention to the latest and greatest trends in clothing styles, I just stick with my standard “Dad” uniform: Vans shoes, beige cargo shorts, and a T-shirt. The Vans are always pretty thrashed, and the cargo shorts are worn in five-day increments (to the dismay of my wife, whom I love). I do change my shirt, though. The T-shirt varies from my favorite local punk band, The 1st Line, to any random shirt with a smartass saying on it. I’m particularly fond of one that has a picture of a police car on it and simply says “Party’s Over.”

 I don’t put much thought into what I look like. I just throw on the nearest pair of shorts lying on the floor in my room and go about my day answering the 5,000 questions my kids throw at me: “Dad, can I have a slumber party tonight?” “Dad, can I have a dog?” “Dad, can you change your shorts?”

The other evening, my wife had decided she was done with my lackadaisical style. We were supposed to go eat somewhere nice (well, “nice” to us—it was a place that didn’t have a drive-thru). I was wearing my standard slacker-dad uniform and was walking to the car when my wife blurted out, “Are you really going to wear those shorts?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s why they’re on my body right now.”

“They have a grease stain on your butt from working on the car, and it looks like you had an accident in your pants.”

“These shorts have history. Every stain is another adventure or accomplishment. These stains are badges of honor.”

“There’s no honor in pooping your pants, and that’s what it looks like.”

“All right, all right. I’ll go put my other pair on.”

“If you are referring to the pair that has a permanent glob of Super Glue on the leg that resembles a booger, don’t bother.”

“What about my other pair, the ones with all of the pockets?”

“That pair is missing the top button, and the kids and I are tired of seeing your crack when you bend over.”

“OK, I won’t bend over anymore. What do you want me to do? I can’t go to dinner naked. I’ll have to register the rest of my life as a sex offender.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would just like it if, when I bought you some new shorts, you didn’t go straight into the garage and completely destroy them. You need to have at least have one pair of shorts that is presentable.”

She decided that after dinner we would go shopping to find me some new clothes to wear. It was official: The night was ruined. I’d rather mow the lawn for two days straight than spend an hour in the clothing store. I’ve always hated shopping for clothes, mostly because my entire life I have been in-between sizes. I’m a 35 waist—pants come in 34 or 36 waists. I’m a 33 inseam—pants come in 32 or 34 inseam. I’m either walking on the back of my pants or it looks like I’m wearing floods. To compensate for pants that don’t fit, I just wear shorts instead.

Trying on clothes is just a swift kick to the private parts of my ego. I don’t enjoy sitting in a fitting room, staring in a mirror at the reflection of my hairy beer belly, while trying to decide if the clothes I am about to buy make me look sexy. It’s Justin Timberlake’s job to bring sexy back. My job is to fix the car, fertilize the lawn, and drive the kids to swim practice. For that, I need one pair of cut-off shorts, an old T-shirt, and some Vans. Nothing more, nothing less.

But as we all know, it doesn’t matter what I want. It is what my wife wants that means something in this world. Besides some new shorts, she wanted me to get some clothes that “updated my image.” I didn’t realize I even had an image. Based on the clothes she was tossing over the door into the dressing room, she wanted me to look like some sexy hybrid combination of a firefighter-cowboy-American Idol winner. There was no way a button-up shirt and a new pair of shorts was going to transform me into a singing, bull-riding, fire-fighting hero. I was a lost cause.

I fired my wife as my personal stylist and went out into the racks to find something respectable to wear. I stood in the store staring at the rows of beige cargo shorts. They all looked the same to me. They also looked the same as the pair I was wearing, minus the character-building stains. After trying on a few pairs, I finally found a set that I thought would work. My wife didn’t look very excited by my new digs, but she was at least encouraged that they were new and unsoiled (for the moment, anyway).

“Do you like them? Do they fit?” she asked.

“Eh, I guess.”

“Then buy five pairs. If I have to see you in the same shorts every day, I’d like to know they’re clean.”

Rob’s wife had a party and burned his old pairs of shorts in a bonfire in the backyard. When no one was looking, Rob secretly shed a tear.




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