The subject is a 43-year-old Caucasian male, approximately 5′-9″ in height, and 170 pounds. He gravitates toward brands such as Banana Republic, J. Crew, Calvin Klein, Cole Haan, and Donald J. Pliner. Prada and Todd’s are also under consideration. This description is not a stranger to me, or a character in a movie or a book. It is my husband; it is Michael J. Kaler.
This is a man who wore baggy blue jeans, rugby shirts and hiking shoes when we met thirteen years ago. With weight loss, a mid-life crisis, and a spontaneous move to New York City, this monster shopper/fashionisto was created. I blame myself, but mostly I blame Manhattan. This city can change people. In this instance, change is good.
I did toss his shoes down the Freedom Parkway in 1999, and called them “hideous” or some other ugly descriptive. Often, I requested a wardrobe change before we left the house; or I tried to persuade him to wear something other than tennis shoes or Doc Martens. I always longed for a chic, stylish, straight man; a man who no longer needed my assistance when selecting an outfit. I wished, and I received.
Last night after dinner, he said that he had a confession to make. He purchased a new pair of pants, “snuck” them into the apartment while I was home, and didn’t tell me. This is the action of (it pains me to say it), a SHOPAHOLIC. I am married to a shopaholic, and I am no longer in denial. He is proud that he could admit to the crime, which is the first step toward a full recovery.
My response to his secret was simple, “I am the woman, and this is something that I am supposed to do!” And I confess that I have done it on occasion. Yes I buried a bag in my closet until I could blend a few new garments or shoe boxes into my already maxed-out collection. But my husband? Was he actually taking notes from me? All I can say is that I taught him well.
|Fashionisto Mikey Kaler|