Clothes make the man in the dirty nursing home

Did something I haven't done since George Bush (the 2nd one) was in office and bumbling his way through two unnecessary wars and a monumental recession many Republicans forget almost threw us over the financial cliff -- I went shopping. 

For clothes.

I hate shopping for clothes. Hence I'm still wearing T-shirts, shorts and sneaklers that were purchased with dollars earned  (if copywriting can be considered earning) in 2005.

But my physique has changed in the last year or so. And unlike many men of my significant age, it has changed for the better.

When Deb passed away, so did my appetite. I often went a whole day without a meal and would nibble on fruits, nuts and cheese to sustain myself. Given my excessive girth, there was never any danger of running out of fat storage, nevertheless the weight started dropping off, I was emotionally non-eating, if I may coin a phrase.

When my appetite did make a reappearance, I was well on my way to a new method of fueling my body: light snacks throughout the day, one satisfying meal at night, no sugar (other than what's in bourbon) and no bread. 

Compounding the weight loss is my ruthless and obsessive devotion to exercise. I'm wearing out the magnetic gears on my Peloton, lifting weights three times a week, and religiously knocking out 100 pushups a day.

As a result, and thanks to my smart scale which I have cleverly named Studly McStuderton, my BMI is now in the acceptable range, my muscle mass is now in the excellent range, and I have cracked the 180's.

With any luck I can return myself to my 30 year old self. "We can make him bigger, stronger, faster..."

Only with a lot less hair.

And so, pardon the long intro, I needed new clothes. My daughters and the promise to keep my checkbook open, came to the rescue. Literally, because I had been wearing pants and shorts that were falling off my diminished torso. 

Even my belts were screaming to be replaced, "Do NOT punch another hole in me."

But boy, was I in for an eye opener. First stop was Nordstroms in Century City. Once past the obnoxious noxious fumes of the perfume and cologne department, we made our way to the Men's Wear Department. Where my jaw dropped at the portfolio-busting prices. 

$200 for a pair of dungarees (I like dungarees over the more contemporary 'jeans')!!! 

Just as a goof I took a pair into the dressing room, but only after the snobby counter girl acted like she was doing me a favor by letting me in. I wanted to get a laugh out of my girls who were waiting anxiously to see their old man in some skinny jeans that could induce Deep Vein Thrombosis in even the most fashionable European.

Sliding my big EEE foot down the leg opening I suddenly had insight in to peristalsis and how difficult it must be for a snake to swallow a live creature.

I didn't even get past the knee to realize these 'pants/man stockings' were not meant to be.

Sensing this type of shopping and these exorbitant Eurotrash prices were not for me, Rachel and Abby suggested we visit the nearby Levis store, where I dropped more than 2 bills for two pair of dungarees and two two pair of shorts. I might have to trade my Audi in for a Kia in order to afford clothing I can put on my back.

Which brings us to shirts. And my closet full of fat guy shirts that now sit on my frame like a King Size comforter. 

Abby, who has the same knack as her mother for sniffing out the most expensive items and fastest way to drain my bank account, insisted I try on a linen short sleeve shirt with these very cool illustrations of little carrots. I did and it fit me to a tee. Followed by a near coronary when I saw they wanted $165. 

The girls were quick to point out YOLO. And the fact that had I amortized my miniscule wardrobe enhancements over a dozen or so years, the shirt was actually closer to $1.37. Besides, I was simply spending their inheritance money so who was I to turn down their coaxing.

The dividends I have reaped from the recent weight loss are now running me into red ink in the fashion department. I'm going to have a word with the Honey HR department about a raise. 

Or more stock.