You, come pleat me - by Douglas

Why do I do it? Why do I let myself be tempted again and again? I know what will happen. I’ll be alone at home one day. “I’ll just get online and check my email,” I tell myself, using my innocent sing-songy internal voice. And I might even believe me. But I know I’ll wind up on that website again, looking for my perfect match. Searching for that one picture, then another and another, to find a few that are pleasing to the eye and make me continue reading to try to find the best fit for me. Or at least just a pair of pants I'd like to get into. “This will end badly. It always does,” harps that irritating little angel on my shoulder. But I brush him off like dandruff. "Your wife is going to kiiillll yooouuuu..." he throws in for good measure as he flies away. I go on clicking like Samuel Morse on uppers, making my selections until, exhausted and full of anticipation, I press the Confirm button and…enter my Amex number. I now owe Eddie Bauer $240.

Seven to ten days later I’ll get the call at work from my wife. “Why?” she’ll ask without a trace of her usual humor or good naturedness. She has asked more than once to play at least an advisory role in my clothing purchases because she has been led down this primrose path so many times she could walk it blindfolded.

In my defense, those little pictures of clothes on the websites often don’t give an accurate impression of what the garment actually looks like. I’ve bought what I thought was a simple button down twill pattern shirt, only to receive a cowboy-style shirt with pearly-metally-buttoned swaggy pockets

and lapels that double as a hang glider for those inevitable cliffside emergencies. And there’s some style I’m not supposed to order again – maybe elkhorn or pinpoint or flannel-lined chukka monkey. I never remember but I somehow buy it every time and I have it on good authority that it makes me look like an end-stage syphillitic. I have to start remembering these things.

Bottom line is I always end up wanting only about half of the order, but I have paid for the entire order, including unrefundable shipping, so I’ve just flushed those semi-hard-earned shipping dollars away. You're probably thinking that I'll at least return the rest of my order for a full refund, right? It's like you don't even know me. I’d rather squat my honey-dipped heinie cheeks onto a freshly-poked mound of pre-menstrual fire ants than to go return something at the mall or mail the clothes back to the retailer. I know it’s irrational…it seems like such a benign little chore…but the thought of it makes me go all wormy.

So my closet gets another bag on the pile of other bags half-full of clothes that I’ve paid for but will never wear. My family seeks shelter behind this pile the moment the tornado siren begins to wail. I should start measuring my four-year old’s height against this pile. “OK champ, here’s how tall you were in October after the end-of-summer breathable square-neck Chino half-turtle sale. Now look at you! You’re all the way up to the fall semi-annual oxford pushup mock-toe outer crew-lace clearance! Daddy’s big man!”

But it’s OK because I have a plan. Somewhere down the line I will get leverage on my wife. For instance, I’m going to do our taxes soon and I’ll just drop a casual, tax-related line like, “We should probably go ahead and donate those unreturned clothes so we can declare it.” If all goes to plan, she’ll launch into how ridiculous it is to write off a fraction of the cost when I should return them for a full refund. Followed by a frothy exclamation point. Then I'll calmly counter with how busy I am doing these impossible taxes so…