Tragically unhip

Apparently, I am unfashionable.

I know, I know. I was shocked, too. But the guilty verdicts came at me from a variety of sources.

The first shot came from some of my younger co-workers. I am not really sure how the conversation started, but it somehow got around to how incredibly unhip I am. The main reason for this? Pleats. I apparently missed the last fashion newsletter, but according to my 20-something fashionistas, wearing pleats is the fashion equivalent of wearing a Carmen Miranda hat.

They also attacked my choice of socks. Apparently, your socks are supposed to match your shoes. Or not. I can't remember. But whatever the correct choice was, I had done it wrong. I generally opt for this method of selecting socks: Reach in drawer. Grab socks. Find out later if they are, in fact, a matching pair.

I didn't realize socks were supposed to be a fashion issue. I thought they were a functional item, much like a coffee maker. A coffee maker's job? Make coffee. A sock's job? Be a sock, right? Apparently, it is also tasked with "tying the outfit together," whatever that means. I for one do not consider anything I wear an "outfit." I consider it pants, a shirt, some shoes, etc. An "outfit" is what my wife has 46,000 of in her closet.

The next hit came from my wife. We were getting the kids ready for school, and I was on Parker duty. Whenever I get the chance, I opt to dress Parker because he is (a) two and (b) a boy. The combination of those two factors mean that I can dress him in pretty much whatever I can grab. I could send him to school wearing a blanket and a baseball cap and he would be perfectly content. Allie, on the other hand, is becoming fashion conscious, and is also really into dresses. And the few times I have tried to match her up with a dress, her mother raises the Eyebrow of Disapproval, and then asks why I have dressed Allie in a Little Mermaid outfit.

Additionally, there is the hair issue. I don't do hair. Not that I don't want to. I can't. My one attempt at putting Allie's hair in pigtails resulted in many, many tears.

I used to enjoy dressing Allie, back when she was too small to object. A quick check of pictures when she was a toddler makes it very easy to see who dressed her each day. Cute little dress, matching hair bow? Mom. Overalls, T-shirt, shoes that may or not match? Yours truly.

But I digress. So I dress Parker one day, and I actually am somewhat proud of my choice for The Dude. Looks pretty sharp, I'm thinking. We march downstairs, and the first thing my wife says is, "He doesn't match."

Now, my first reaction was to argue with her. After all, he had some snappy pants on and a slick looking shirt. Add to that his favorite shoes ever (really cool, really small work boots). To me, he looked like he hopped off the cover of Hipster Toddler Monthly. (If there is such a publication, help us all.) But rather than argue, I opted for a learning experience. After all, as far as I could tell pants + shirt = match. Not really sure how you can go wrong.

"He's got green pants and blue in his shirt," my wife said, as if she were explaining the most basic foundations of the world.

"But his shirt his red," I countered.

"With blue in it."

At this point, we just had to accept that we were at an impasse. I did the only thing I could at this point: "You know where his shirts are if you don't like it." This was not the best choice.

So I guess I will continue to go through life clueless. I don't particularly care about fashion (clearly), so I don't really feel like expending the energy to learn all of the nuances. I am happiest in a worn pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt from college, and my well-broken-in tennis shoes. But on the occasions where I have to go beyond comfort attire, I will be unfashionable. As I write this, I am wearing pleated slacks. Strike one. They are green (or olive or whatever that color is). My shirt has blue in it. Strike two, apparently. My socks? No clue. Haven't checked to see if they match yet. Strike three. I'm out. Of touch.