This Month's Story

“Paul. Feel this material.” Stella had been shopping and she had the edge of something sticking out of one of the shopping bags.

Highly suspicious, I looked up from what I was doing and looked over at what she was holding. We had been married too long…

When I didn’t get up, she pulled whatever it was out of the bag and brought it over to me. It was a pair of men’s shorts. I have no idea what the material was, but it felt soft and luxurious. I looked at the shorts more closely, there were zipper pockets attached discreetly to the main pockets. I held them up and gasped. What I was holding was a pair of men’s dress cargo shorts!

“They were on sale. I bought two. Try this one on, if it doesn’t fit, I’ll take them back.”

“Stella, these are cargo shorts!”

“I know, doesn’t that material feel great? Come on put them on. I want to see how they look. You can wear them when we go to dinner tonight with the Kirks.”

“Stella, do you know how many cargo shorts I own now? I counted ten yesterday and with these two I’ll have an even dozen and two of these will be dress cargo shorts!!”

She had pulled the other one out and was holding it against the first. “Hmm, I thought they were a different color. You better try this one on too. I’ll take one of them back tomorrow.”

When I was young, my mother bought all my clothes. I had little to say in the matter and, in fact, it never occurred to me to request a particular style or piece of clothes that may have been in vogue with the other kids. I remember wishing I had a pair of penny loafers, but never voiced my wants and so my feet never had a chance to “loaf.”

When I was eighteen, I joined the Navy and an even more omnipotent power began telling me what to wear and when to wear it. And so it went, year after year through the years, dress codes at work, the obligatory jeans (Levis, of course) after work. Let’s say that at no time was I ever a fashion plate. I wore what I had until it wore out and then I got another set of whatever it was in the same style and color.

When Stella and I became one, she wanted to change clothing style and found herself facing an uphill battle. She made suggestions, steered me to the men’s department in Maison Blanche, pointed things out in Wal Mart. I deflected her at times heavy-handed hints and went on the style dictated by my Mom and my Uncle Sam, drab, colorless and of which I was, inwardly at least, very content.

Stella was persistent and managed to open the first wedge of my fashion collapse by taking over my haircuts. For years since college, I had cut my own hair. When I was done cutting, my hair always looked like I didn’t need a haircut. Since this was what I was trying to achieve, I was very content with the results. When long hair became the rage, I was in my glory. However, there came a time when I came back from a several months stay in Indonesia with my hair rather long and even I will admit, a bit shaggy. Stella took one look and made an appointment for me with her hairdresser.

That trip to her hairdresser marked the start of the end. Now, when Stella comes home from a shopping trip, there is usually some garment that I have to try on. I’ve become complacent with all this. I believe that there are other wars to be fought in life that to me are more important. And too, Stella does make great ice cream and does a wonderful “There, there, Paul” when I am down in the dumps. So, laissez faire.

However, there are times, and gazing at my twelfth pair of cargo shorts, this seemed one of them. I take it for granted you know what I am talking about, you know, the shorts that are the latest fad, lots of pockets and compartments. I think they are supposed to give you a sporty motif, as if you are engaged in some very busy, heavy duty masculine project.

When they first came out, I thought that they looked nice, and in a moment of weakness, bought a couple pair at Sam’s, figuring they would be handy for doing yard work. Since then, cargo shorts of all shapes and styles have appeared in Stella’s shopping bags for months. Now I was going to dinner in a pair of dress cargo shorts.

That evening, Marie Kirk turned to me and remarked that she liked my shorts. I put a broad smile on my face, “They are nice aren’t they. And they are really very, very soft. Would you like to feel them?”

With that, Stella gave a swift and, I can truthfully say, rather vicious, kick under the table.