Honey, these pants are a little tight

I am at the mercy of the missus when it comes to — well, a lot of things actually — but clothing in particular.

See, I have no fashion sense. Don't know what's in style, what's out of style, or who decides such things or what difference it makes if one sock is blue and the other one is black.

I'm not one of those husbands who goes and asks his wife, "Does this tie go with this shirt?" because I don't pick out the ties or the shirts. I don't buy any clothing because — and I believe I have previously alluded to this fact — I have no fashion sense.

If it were up to me, I'd be wearing bell-bottom pants (remember those) and one of those hula-girl ties that lights up when you press a little button on the back of it.

But when I got married, the missus — whom I believe I have also earlier alluded to — quickly and effectively revamped my wardrobe.

Now I ain't exactly your GQ kind of guy. I don't have much designer anything kind of clothing. That's generally because I don't look like any of those guys on the cover of said GQ magazine. I'm not tall, dark and handsome. I am short and cute in a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig sort of way.

I look like some middle aged fellows who, as they have sadly accepted the fact that their driving-in-a-convertible with-a-perky-blonde days are over, opt to frequently make numerous trips to the dessert cart.

So clothing is not my strong suit. The missus does the clothes shopping, the clothes matching and the deciding what I wear ((I'm her short, pudgy little Ken doll). This holds true unless I'm playing golf, at which time I am on my own, but you can't go wrong with a blue shirt and khaki pants, am I right or am I right?

So on Sunday morning we were having our Christmas program at church and we both sing in the choir and I had a solo to do and we lost track of time (I realize there are way too many "ands" in this sentence but I'm in a hurry so insert your own periods and break it up any way you like) and she laid out the clothes she wanted me to wear. So I put on the pants she put out but they were way too tight around the middle (see the aforementioned pot-bellied pig reference). It's at this point that I realize there's no way I'm going to be able to sing because these pants are going to restrict my breathing, not to mention any general motion of any kind involving the lower half of my body.

Now I don't know where she got these pants but they just weren't going to work. So I point this out to her as I'm standing there all trussed up like a Christmas turkey trying to breathe.

But she assures me that I have worn these pants on previous occasions but I respectfully beg to differ which prompts her to once again — this time with some degree of emphasis — ASSURE ME that I have and we've been married for 25 years (tomorrow is our anniversary; thank you, thank you very much) and she's never been wrong and I realize that no matter how much I stress my point, she's not going to be wrong this time.

So I'm standing there thinking that I'll be able to get through about half of Oh Holy Night before I begin gasping for air, lose consciousness, collapse and fall over on top of Katie Baines, who sits in front of me, setting off a general panic among those in attendance and ruining what would otherwise be a lovely Sunday morning service.

The good news is I was eventually able to plead my case to some degree of effectiveness and she found me some other britches to wear and we were a tad late but not so late as to disrupt the pre-service rehearsal to any great degree.

The church service went fine and I was able to breathe and maintain consciousness and Katie was not injured.

Now I would like to take this opportunity to wish all of you a very merry Christmas. I wish for you God's blessings and I hope you have the best holiday season ever.

And to all a good night.

Oh, and happy anniversary dear.

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.