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Every fall, it's the same torturous ordeal. But do I remember to squeeze into a hollow log in the woods? Sign up for a seven-hour board meeting? Or jump off the roof and break my arms to avoid all the pain?
No.
I only remember these pleasant alternatives a half-second after my sweetie coos, "It's time to go through the closet."
"I don't wanna, I don't wanna, I don't wanna!" I explain rationally and logically while lying on the floor pounding my fists into the carpet.
"Stop clowning," she says. "It'll be fun."
Not as much fun as breaking both arms.
There are only a couple things I detest more than rotating the closet from summer-weight clothes to winterwear.
"Pile everything you want to store over the winter there," she instructs in a voice that's a little too giddy. "Here will be everything you want to keep in the closet. This will be for the things that will fit again when you start eating your salads, and over there we'll put everything you want to give away."
Sorting clothes into decisions -- that's one of the things I detest more.
A wise man once advised swallowing a toad the first thing in the morning to get the worst thing that can happen to you for the day out of the way in a hurry. I "swallowed the toad."
"Hey, you can't heave EVERYTHING into the giveaway pile. You have to try them on first."
And there it is, the thing I detest most -- becoming a living Ken doll. Why is it that when women get too big for Barbie dolls, they insist on playing dress-up with spouses instead?
"Don't you want to know if they still fit?" She hands over a cluster of shirts. "Try them on. I need to see."
Thus begins the odious task of tugging on every shirt and pair of pants I own for Ken doll inspection.
"I've never liked this shirt," I grouse while buttoning yet another garment. "I've never worn it. It's obnoxious."
"You look so good in that color. We're keeping it."
"Happy to help," I mutter. "Are we done yet?"
She shoved another pullover at me. "If you didn't have so many shirts, we might be."
"I didn't have so many shirts before we got married and you started dressing me up."
"You wore the same three button-downs all the time. They're 20 years old and ratty. Isn't it time that you…"
"They stay," I snap. "Leave my good shirts alone."
"I try to do something sweet for you, and all you do is carry on like a 5-year-old," she said.
"Do not. Na na na na, I can't hear you."
"I thought you'd want to look nice." She sighs and unfolds flannel-lined pants from the storage bin. "I remember when I bought these for you. It's so much fun trying on clothes you haven't seen in six months."
I notice that the only person trying on clothes is me. "What about your side of the closet?"
"You never bought me anything to wear. There's nothing to try on."
"How about if I buy you Barbie and Ken?" I pleaded. "If I let you dress up my G.I. Joe, can we stop this madness?"
"Here, you haven't tried on these shirts yet. This one would go well with those pants in the giveaway pile. Are you sure you want to get rid of those? Try them on again."
There's nothing I detest more.
Dress up Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com, the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook or www.burtonwcole.com.