Long Tables, pt. 6

Maybe there’s nothing worse for a man than when his wife picks out his clothes for him. And it’s always something you hate wearing. After I die, when I’m laying there in the coffin like cold meat, and everybody comes to stand around my corpse talking quietly about what a great guy I was, Molly’s going to have me done up like a sailor or some damned thing. I’ll be the only guy to ever go in the ground wearing a bullshit turtleneck.

This will be her final unkindness. Hardy-har, and thanks for those corduroy pants that balloon out at the crotch. It’s the sort of thing that gets under my skin like a fresh paper cut.

So you can imagine when I walked out of the bathroom and there was my worst outfit, pressed and spread across the bed like it was somebody really thin having a nap, you can imagine how I wanted to run out into traffic. They’re pretty regular clothes. I’m not saying that. It’s just I’d rather eat peanuts. Probably it would help to mention I’m allergic to peanuts.

The worst part about the outfit was this old man sweater, the one Molly got me for my birthday, it’s the kind without sleeves, and you’re supposed to wear it over a button-down shirt. Whoever thought that up should be hanged.

Instead of putting it on I spilled mustard all down the front. I forgot to mention I was eating a sandwich. Anyway I made a stink about it so Molly would hear. When she came in I did the routine where I’m a total fuck up and how does she ever put up with me. Molly went sort of hysterical. She started hollering and she was flapping her arms around like a turkey. I almost smiled but I know better.