I've Ruined My Boy

All signs indicate that my youngest son Isaac has inherited my taste in clothing. This morning, as his Dad loomed over him wearing a red shirt and green sweatshorts, looking everything like a discount Christmas item bin at Wal-Mart, Isaac pouted as he was not allowed to wear his clothing of choice: Fire engine red shorts with an orange stripey shirt. Even though the last time his mother saw him in that outfit she went blind for an hour, Isaac insisted that the ensemble was acceptable. I had to tell him no because last time, after the blindness wore off, I was the one disciplined for letting the boy's tastes in color get the better of me.

Now, I subscribe to the purely utilitarian male view on clothing: Functionality. If it covers enough of what I am legally and socially bound to cover, I don't care what color it may be, whether it has stains or holes in it, or whether or not an item of clothing, when worn with another, can incite riots among color-sensitive mental patients.

I've promised my wife no photographs.

And I have passed this trait on to my son. My wife fears for his future wife. I say he's just ready to go to the hardware store.