Wardrobe malfunction

All I could think was, Get the hell away from me.

Already the room had begun spinning and my fists had clinched because I feared making a grave error in this oh-so-important decision in every man's life.

Now, right in the middle of my dilemma, someone also with XY chromosomes — someone who should know to give a guy his space in this touchstone moment — wanted to interfere. But I knew I had to choose.

V-necked, crew-necked, polo-styled or what the—? zip-necked? And what color?

My first cashmere sweater.

In Details, Men's Health and Esquire, I had read on more than one occasion that I should own at least one, and the last thing I needed was an already stressful predicament aggravated by some other male shopper who had hopes of wrangling me into the nearest fitting room.

What this Don Juan-wannabe couldn't know is, when it comes to buying clothes, I'm as uncomfortable and out of my element as a husband in the feminine hygiene aisle of a pharmacy.

In this environment, only my anger could be aroused.

To give you some idea of not only my antipathy toward the ins and outs of fashion but also the wardrobe that offers supporting evidence, for six years I'd been trying to pass off some type of "barn jacket" as a winter coat suitable for the office. Nothing tells a man he's failed in this effort like the moment he reaches for something in a pocket and realizes he's un-sticking Velcro to do so.

So there I was, forcing myself to find attire for work that would be considered more appropriate — more specifically, clothes that would match the ol' "dress for the job you want" adage.

I'd been putting it off for about six weeks, in favor of more pleasant activities, like an annual physical and a regular teeth-cleaning at my dentist's. I'd even promised (to no avail) $100 to two different female friends if they would lead me by the hand in the direction of the proper shoes, proper pants and proper navy blazer.

Now, not more than 15 minutes into my second evening of trying to figure it out on my own, as any grown man should, someone was in no-so-subtle romantic pursuit of me.   

"Can I help the two of you with anything in particular?"

For crying out loud, I thought. I wasn't paranoid. The cruiser was following me so closely that the Bloomingdale's sales associate thought we were together.

"I'm just looking, thanks," I answered, with an I-can't-speak-for-the-stalker tone in my voice.

Orange? No. Black? No. Yellow? No. I had a tough time picturing myself wearing anything in front of me on the table. I was lost.

Finally, frustrated that nothing jumped out at me enough to fork over for woven goat hairs at 50-percent off the $130 the store was asking, I fled from Perimeter Mall. And from the man who wanted my, uh, phone number.

As I was heading for home, I convinced myself to stop by Macy's at Cumberland Mall to see if I could salvage the night by at least locating a winter coat.

Just a couple of minutes after I entered the store, I spotted a navy wool one that I thought looked pretty good, and, like the sweaters earlier, it was 50-percent off. I was ready to take it to the nearest dressing room when, inside my head, I heard my friend Tammy's voice.

It was from a couple of days earlier. She's one of the women to whom, from my mobile phone inside Parisian on the previous failed outing, I made the desperate cash offer for assistance.

One of her closing comments echoed: "You're not a Large."

She might as well have said Auburn had no legitimate claim to a shot at the national title. Or size does matter. Well, almost that bad.

But what did she know? She had spent too much time dating college football players and buying shirts for her ex-Marine dad to know what anything below XL looks like in the men's section.

Still, I thumbed through the rack for another size and, with two coats, made my way to a mirror. I wanted reassurance that, while I might not know color and style, I know what fits.

So I jerked on the one Tammy would've recommended, knowing full well the sleeves would end mid-forearm and my armpits would feel like I'd donned a straight-jacket.

Damnit, she's right. I'm a Medium.

For some reason — maybe it's something subconscious from growing up in the country, where so often "corn-fed" is what boys are called — I didn't want to think of myself as someone smaller, someone not cut out for a bigger cut of fabric.

XL is post-playing days Howie Long. It's Jason Varitek after the final out of Game Seven vs. the Yankees back in October.

L is George Clooney going to the door when a brokenhearted Brad Pitt appeared on his stoop to tie one on and shoot the shit, and L is also a sweat-soaked Dennis Quaid on a guitar solo, fronting the Sharks.

But M?

M is Macaulay Culkin. Or, after a particularly strenuous hour of bikram yoga, Joan Baez.

Probably even Carson Kressley wears a Large.

Not yours truly, though. No, siree. I wear what my nephew will likely outgrow about the time he earns his learner's permit.

But I wasn't quite ready to come to terms with my size orientation. I needed help coming out of the oversized closet.

One night before my buddy Steve and I walked out the door to grab dinner, I made him give me his opinion on a medium-sized button-down shirt of a supposedly swanky label that I'd found for half price at Nordstrom.

"Is it too snug?" I asked, hopeful.

He smiled but knew he had now way to let me down easy: "It fits you perfectly."

Dejected, I hung the shirt back in my bedroom closet, putting off the moment I'd further own up to my Medium status by cutting off the store tags.

When I returned to the living room, sporting an XL long-sleeved T-shirt I'd had for a couple of years, Steve apparently felt liberated to lay it all out on the table. "That one, on the other hand," nodding to the orange garment adorning my torso, "is entirely too big for you."

One by one, my friends began to come clean, like a support group that knew an intervention had been long overdue.

"Large and Extra Large make it look even worse when you slouch," my friend Kevin said. Nice.

I've tried to look on the bright side. I'll never again have to wonder whether a store has my size because the wives and girlfriends of all full-sized men will be perusing only L and XL. And, judging by all I've read, a man with a leaner build tends to not only outlive his more hulking peers but also fare better with the fairer sex.

Err, anyway ... I'm finding not everything works best on me in Medium. T-shirts, both long and short-sleeved varieties, look better in Large. The same goes for golf shirts.

Even the button-up I'm wearing today is a Large — and fits properly. Any smaller and I think it would've come with its own Cher CD, Prada bag and anti-chaffing tape.

As for the cashmere? I couldn't tell you which size is more sensible. I never tried one on and am not sure I'm going to.

Because often the greatest decision a man can make is to think for himself. I believe Howie and Carson both would agree.

Comments

[Gtkev]

This is hilarious. I've only recently accepted my own "M" status after years of similarly baggy attire, so I get this! You should definitely seek to publish this one.

[Jack Malebranche]

Great read. For what it's worth, George Clooney is probably a medium.

I remember going from medium to large. It came with a lot of time at the gym, but also a little too much beer. I think the ideal for most men under 6 ft is barely fitting into a medium.

I've long had a theory that men's shoe sizes and clothes often run smaller than maybe they used to, precisely for this reason. While I think many men are OK with being a medium...in many ways...NOBODY wants to be a small. I think it often depends on the company. My 'roomate' and I both went from a size 10 shoe to an 11 over the past few years...and I've always supected it had nothing to do with our feet growing. I think it's shrewd marketing.

Plus, keep in mind that most American men are fat. But with the cashmere sweater set, not so much.

[dan_dc]

Great post, man!

[Tammy]

Just keep in mind, women strive to be an "M." When we hit "L" our lives are, of course, automatically over -- at least according to this month's issue of Glamour, which I personally live by.

[Lyle]

Sometimes "large" means "brawny" or "full-sized", but I think more often it just means "fat". I weigh more now than I ever have in my life, and although I still have some of my skinny clothes hanging in an upstairs closet just waiting to be called back into service, I think my "M" days are no more than a fond memory.

By the way, my winter coat is velcro pockets all the way. I get a pass since I'm an engineer, right?

[Rob A.]

Nothing tells a man he's failed in this effort like the moment he reaches for something in a pocket and realizes he's un-sticking Velcro to do so.

Great line, great post.