Every morning my lovely wife takes great care in assembling her outfit, thoughtfully matching her skirt or pants, blouse, sweater, shoes and a fashion accessory like a scarf or pearls. And then she foolishly throws caution to the winds by asking me what I think of the final combination.
I always say that her choices look good — because, in fact, they always do. The unfortunate reality, however, is that my opinion is without value because I have absolutely no fashion sense. I can’t distinguish between subtle shades of black. I don’t know when — if ever — it’s appropriate to wear plaid. I have no clue which colors “go together” and which colors “clash.” (“Clash” seems like pretty violent imagery for a clothing-related issue, incidentally.) Indeed, I can’t even figure out how to hang up most of Kish’s clothes, what with all of the mysterious straps and outsized or undersized holes, much less express a meaningful view of whether they logically should be worn together.
I probably inherited my fashion obliviousness from my father. During the ’70s he plunged into the outlandish clothing trends of the decade with reckless abandon, going all in for brightly colored Sansabelt slacks, loud checked jackets, white loafers with the gold buckles, leisure suits, and shirts with zippers. It’s probably fortunate for me that, as a lawyer, I’m expected to wear basic gray or blue suits, white shirts, and some kind of drab tie. I can manage that without embarrassing myself.
So this morning, Kish will ask how she looks, and I’ll say she looks great as she always does. Lately, though, I’ve been noticing that after I express my heartfelt opinions she’s likely to go change her outfit, anyway. Maybe she’s not relying on my sense of chic after all.