the underwear drawer

what not to wear

Cal is very particular about his pants. The one kind of pants that he'll predictably let us put on without a fight are these schlumpy cotton jersey shorts that we got at Old Navy.




He probably has 10 pairs of these (which he calls his "Better Shorts") in every possible color, which is just enough to get him through the week. (I know that sounds like a lot of pairs of shorts, but Cal changes his clothes two or three times a day, not counting pajamas for his curtain call. It's like he's hosting the Academy Awards or something. That is, if all Academy Awards hosts changed their gowns because they kept befouling them with a combination of food, dirt, and bodily waste. I'm looking at you, Steve Martin.)

Here is the conversation that usually ensues when I try to put him in any other kinds of pants.


MICHELLE
(Trying to sneak on a pair of cargo pants)
OK, here we go...

CAL
No. No like. Put away.

MICHELLE
No Cal, these are nice pants! Look how soft!

CAL
No! No like! Too tight! Put away! Better! Better Shorts!

MICHELLE
These aren't too tight, these are new pants, so they're bigger. And we're not going to wear the Better Shorts today, because it's too cold.

CAL
No! Better one! No! Too tight! No like! (Etcetera.)


Usually after the disputed pants are actually on, he forgets about the whole thing and happily goes about his day, but it's just hard to get him to let me put them on most of the time. He did have a pair of khakis earlier in the Spring that were a little snug in the waist, and I think that from this he's imprinted that all pants are too tight around the midriff (or, as he puts it, "too tight inna button.")

Unfortunately, it is now almost October, and the season for the Better Shorts is coming to a close, at least outside of the house. So in shopping for his fall and winter pants, I took special pains to really examine every single pair of pants that I was buying, feeling the softness of the fabric, the stiffness of the seams, the elasticity of the waistbands, what have you. Whatever it takes to cajole him into pants without a fight. Anyway, I'm tired of him looking like a middle school gym teacher.

(Not that I'm one to talk. I wear the exact same clothes every day. It's like in those Charlie Brown cartoons, where he opens up his closet and just has 20 identical yellow shirts with black zig zags across the chest. Makes getting dressed in the dark easy, though.)