Wearing the Walk

There are times in a man’s life when he starts feeling his oats. Well – in my case - my bran. One can only withstand so much tyranny and bullying. Each of us reaches that point where we yearn to stand on our own and face the world unaided. It is that calling that sets our sex apart. In my case it was living under the heavy hand of the fashion nazi. Did I say "the heavy hand of the fashion nazi?" Pardon, I meant to say "under the loving guidance of my beloved wife." Previously, I have expounded on the guidance that she exerts on my daily wardrobe.
I feel I am misunderstood when I say I have no fashion sense. It is not that my sense is poor. It just doesn’t exist. I have always gone by three simple rules.
1) Is it comfortable
2) Does it cover the naughty parts
3) Is it clean
Colours, textures and such are just not important. But because I was feeling my bran I decided to focus my intellect and learn to fend for myself. It would be a very gracious gesture on my part to consider other peoples sensibilities even if those sentiments are trite.
My dearest went coastal in that she travelled to Vancouver to see the offspring. This serendipitous event offered an excellent opportunity to take the helm of my own clothing fate. By the time she returns I will be a master.
The first morning consisted of unsure steps. Several self imposed changes were finally rewarded with a satisfied look in the dresser mirror. Full of pride I journeyed to work to coyly exhibit my new skills.
“Where did your wife go?” I was asked as I entered the administration area.
“Whaaaa…?” I cleverly replied.
“Doesn’t look like she dressed you this morning” came the piercing reply.
Hmmmm. This was going to be harder than I expected. I will persevere!
The next morning was a glorious warm day. I sorted through the shorts drawer to make my choice. Ahhh…. This was the pair! They were khaki with loads of pockets. My wife’s in-my-head voice cautioned me that they were a little passé due to the length of the leg. Granted they were a full six inches above the knee. They were still a full 6 inches longer then Magnum P.I.’s shorts. I have never heard my wife complain about Tom Selleck’s shorts so was her past prohibition that strong?
Then I had the brain storm. I could beat two bushes with the same bird. I donned a t-shirt and then wiggled the shorts half way down my butt. The short leg was now in the vicinity of the knee and I had the low rider look that must be too cool as I have seen several young lads sporting the same effect.
Approaching work I was very confident that my new inspiration would be well received. I went about my work but made a deliberate point to find something that needed attention in the administration area to test my haberdasheristic wizardry upon the 5 or 6 women that occupied this space.
It was a little awkward carrying the ladder with the geisha-walk that my genius had imposed on me. However, I got the ladder in place and gingerly scaled the ladder to adjust a cable in the ceiling. My downfall was not bringing a longer ladder as I was forced to stretch a little farther than anticipated. My t-shirt rode up my frame exposing what had been previously hidden. I now realized that I had broken all three of my own rules, the third only because the screaming caught me by surprise.
I have already had a couple sessions of sensitivity training and the female staff are rotating through some other form of counselling. I spent the last work day of the week in exile at home too terrified to leave the house. I will be ok though as my beloved will be home in a couple of days and hopefully things will return to normal.