Sartorial maladies

Let me begin with a confession. I have horrible fashion sense. Now I know many guys out there are afflicted by this malady, but I'm beyond help. I once wore a red colored six pocket pant for over a year (not continuously though!) that would put Govinda's fashion designer to shame.

I have always relied on my mother's & sister's help (did I say help? I meant total dominion) in this department. Cut to the scene of me shopping with my aforementioned fashion advisors. Mom says, "Take these pants and try them out." I proceed to the trial room with the heavy heart of a man approaching the gallows for a crime he knows he committed.

I hate trying on clothes. I go into that tiny room which is built to house only those with bodies so perfect that they don't need to try out clothes as their carefully crafted bodies are the classic demographic that these clothes brands shoot for. As I take my caricatured self into these rooms, I spend most of the time looking at myself in the mirror and not really the clothes I am trying out. I check out my teeth, smile nicely once, give the evil grin twice and frown thrice. Finally I come out with the pants only to see my sister armed with a couple more, giving me a critical look (which suggests unadulterated disapproval) that says, "The only thing worse than those clothes on your body is your body itself!"

Mom beckons, and I sheepishly go to her; she asks me embarrassing questions about the fitting of the pants at various places. I always nod in assent, whether true or false, simply because I'd rather face lifelong discomfort than the ordeal of ramp-walking for my mom and sis.

They both argue over the fashionableness of the clothes, sis always suggesting that mom's taste is too 80's. This argument ends in one of them admitting that I don't have what it takes to pull off a crisp look. Salesmen stare.

I get more clothes to try out; some t-shirts this time. Now, I know what you're thinking, 'How can anybody mess up t-shirt fittings?' Well, that's because you haven't met the master of awkward clothes fits.

All this while, dad is looking for a parking space on Gokhale road.

The thing about memories is that that the average ones keep flitting on and off, the good ones rarely remain clear except the feeling, and really good ones stay fresh (for easy recall when the train journey is long and there are twenty people sharing standing space on my toes); but the really embarrassing ones stick. My attention to detail has always been poor, but these examples of sartorial ignominy are picture-perfectly etched on the inside of my skull.

I have moved on, live in NYC now, and I shop for myself (if and only if I cannot drag protesting female friends with me). I make my share of mistakes.

Someday, I will have a wife, and this chain of events will resume, more embarrassing than the old ones, mainly because Murphy has chosen to be a companion for life.